Follow You, Follow Me
by eirenical
Summary: In this strange conglomeration of humanity which made up the users of tumblr, Grantaire felt like he'd stumbled into a land peopled entirely by others who were just like himself. It was glorious to feel so... not alone. And, unfortunately for Enjolras... it went to his head. (Slow build, eventual ExR, other pairings, as well. Modern AU. Rating will go up in later chapters.)
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Follow You, Follow Me  
**Fandom:** Les Miserables (mostly based on musical/movie-verse, but I've been reading my way through parts of the Brick and that may occasionally influence something).  
**Pairing:** Will eventually be Enjolras/Grantaire for sure... other pairings are still a bit up in the air.  
**Rating:** PG-13 for now, rating may (and most likely will) go up  
**Warnings:** Slash, obsessive behavior, talk of addictive behavior (both to alcohol and certain social media sites ^_~)

**_May 21, 2013:_** Several weeks ago, I reblogged a post by supersherlockian on tumblr. Shortly thereafter, it lodged itself in my brain and refused to be dislodged until I began to write fic for it. Here is the original tumblr post: "Reading about Grantaire in the Brick, thinking how that guy's tumblr would've been the bestest ever!" Because it would have been. And just imagine what kind of mischief he'd have gotten up to once he discovered Enjolras' social justice tumblr? What mischief, indeed...? ^_~

In other words, Jehan talks Grantaire into getting a tumblr and in so doing... creates a monster.

(This was intended to be a short, sweet bit of fluff. It isn't, anymore. -.-;;;)

* * *

**_Follow You, Follow Me_**  
by _Renee-chan_

* * *

E-mail.

Password.

Username.

That seemed simple enough. What he was supposed to do with the bloody thing once he'd filled in those little blue boxes, he had no idea, but Jehan had seemed convinced that he would enjoy it. And Grantaire was enamored of nothing more than those things he might enjoy. Though he wore a cynic's clothing, at heart he was a hedonist. He couldn't resist at least looking into it. Jean Prouvaire knew him that well, for certain.

Filling in an e-mail (a dummy account he'd set up for just such tentative pursuits) and a password had proven easy enough. What was currently giving him pause was this conundrum of choosing a username. His first thought was to name himself after what he would use the site for - but as he knew not what that was to be, that proved futile rather quickly. He thought of simply using his name, but dismissed that idea even more quickly than the first. This medium seemed to demand a sort of anonymity and until he was more familiar with it, he didn't want his name attached in any way. So, that left him with the prospect of coming up with a clever nickname... and that was proving elusive.

Frustrated with his inability to command a burst of wit at an opportune time when such cleverness had no trouble overtaking him at the most inopportune of times, Grantaire pushed his laptop away and stood up from the couch. Perhaps a little something to lubricate the thinking process... Grantaire made his way into the kitchen and over to the wine rack, pulled out a Cotes-du-Rhône, then a glass. As he took his first sip, he toyed with the idea of naming the thing after one of his favorite wines, but discarded that idea, as well. It was too obvious, lacked a certain amount of finesse. It simply wasn't good enough.

Grantaire made his way back to the couch and deposited the bottle on the end table, keeping the glass closer to hand. He glanced around the room, hoping for inspiration somewhere among his bookshelves, his racks of music or DVDs, that one poor, neglected fern that Jehan had given him as an apartment-warming present once upon a time. No inspiration there. But, maybe... That might work.

Jehan was a student of language - of all languages, really... or at least as many languages as he could master. He'd studied most of the classics - the better to read the classics of literature, he'd said - and many that Grantaire had never even heard of nor knew existed as languages. That was what had initially drawn Jehan to this site that he was attempting to drag Grantaire into using. It was a new social media platform and it seemed to have spawned its own form of language. Jehan was fascinated, wanted to know more, and had immersed himself in the culture of the website to better study it. Grantaire had poked fun at him at the time - who'd ever heard of a website having its own culture or language, for goodness' sake? - but he'd somehow turned the damned pet project into a burgeoning doctoral dissertation. He was happy as a clam about it, but Grantaire just had to shake his head when his friend got started on discussing it.

The _point_, however, was that Jehan was gifted with languages. They'd been drunk one night - this was not unusual, as they often were - and Jehan had been tossing Grantaire's name around on his tongue like a street con artist tossing a coin about on his fingers.

"Grantaire."

"Gran. Tear."

"Grant. Err."

"Grant. Air."

"Grand. Air."

"Huh. Grand Air. Grand 'R'? Grantaire, has anyone ever told you that your name sounds like 'Big R' in French?"

"No, Jehan. I can't say anyone ever has. Then again, most people who have had occasion to comment on my name haven't had their heads immersed in medieval French poetry for the last month when they did so, either."

Jehan had conceded that that was probably true and that he was very drunk and that had been the end of the matter - except that the nickname had stuck. From that point on, Jehan persisted in calling him 'R' and taking great delight in how it confused their other friends. And if none but he ever laughed when he explained the joke... well, what was the harm?

So. 'R'. That was certainly cryptic enough to throw off any who knew him other than Jehan... but when Grantaire attempted to enter it, it turned out that he was not the first to consider its use. So 'R' was out. 'GrandR' was a bit too close to his own name for comfort and 'bigR' sounded as though it were more suited to being a truck driver's handle than his own. So, something that began with 'R,' perhaps...

And there it was - the moment of wit Grantaire had been looking for. Rebus - a word beginning with 'R' and meaning a symbol used to represent a name. It was simple. It was not cunning except in the way that naming a cat 'neko' was cunning, but its very ubiquitousness and unremarkability would camouflage who it belonged to better than any other disguise Grantaire could have devised. And the irony of using a word to represent that concept as a symbol for himself in social media was Grantaire all over.

With a small flourish, Grantaire typed it in, cracked his knuckles... and began to explore.

* * *

"But haven't you been on yet, this afternoon?"

"Jehan, be serious. Do you have any idea how many pictures of cats you've reblogged today? You can't honestly expect me to 'like' them all even if I _was_ on."

"Oh..."

Grantaire shook his head at the disappointed tone in his friend's voice and offered, "I must say I really do appreciate all the 'grumpy cat' you've been reblogging lately, though."

Jehan leaned over the back of the couch to watch as Grantaire finished decanting the wine, "I know, right! When I first saw him, all I could think was - R's spirit animal! I just... seriously, I couldn't even!"

Grantaire turned back to face the living room and raised an eyebrow, "You couldn't even what, Jehan?"

They blinked at each other for a minute before Jehan sank back down into the couch and hid his face in the back cushions. Grantaire laughed as he brought the wine and glasses over, patted Jehan on the head once he'd put the decanter down, "Practicing that tumblr language, again, Jehan?"

Jehan scowled, but accepted his glass readily enough. "It's _addicting_, R. You have no idea how easily it creeps into your speech. I caught myself using it with my dissertation advisor the other day." Grantaire winced in sympathy. Jehan swallowed down a huge gulp of wine and said, "At least I was able to pass it off as a sample of my research." He lifted a finger and poked Grantaire in the shoulder as he settled down beside him, "Be careful of that when you start posting things of your own. It sneaks up on you."

"I'll take that under advisement."

Another grumpy sound, "See that you do."

* * *

After a month had gone by, Grantaire was starting to get a better idea of what Jehan had been talking about when referring to tumblr's unique language. It had clearly started in the tagging phenomenon, branching out from the restrictions of no commas and the stream of consciousness writing that seemed to encourage. It was strange at first, but he couldn't deny it... there was something in that freedom of language which appealed to Grantaire. He picked it up remarkably quickly, taking advantage of it to sneak clever and biting commentary into posts that were otherwise fairly inane. For some reason, however, other tumblr users seemed to have a certain appreciation for clever and biting commentary. As he started to pick up followers, he also noticed that posts he added his own version of wit to seemed to pick up in popularity. It was an interesting phenomenon.

The most interesting piece, though, was that in this strange conglomeration of humanity which made up the users of tumblr, Grantaire felt like he'd stumbled into a land peopled entirely by others who were just - like - him. He was so used to being the lone devil's advocate in a group of angels, the lone voice of reason in a group of idealists, the lone voice of dissent in a group of yes-men, that to have found an entire population of people who were just as eager to shoot down the mainstream as he was - it was glorious to feel so... not alone. And it went to his head.

In the beginning, Grantaire kept himself strictly to liking Jehan's pictures of cats and occasionally reblogging one of his poems or commentaries on whatever he was reading. Jehan was a good writer and insightful when he wished to be and Grantaire enjoyed giving him that little bit of a boost in popularity. By the time he'd been on the site for a month, though, such activities no longer felt like enough. He started to crave that validation that he only got when people like himself reblogged his additions to posts. He stalked the tags of his each and every reblog, mentally ticked off a checkmark for every "bless this post" and "accurate post is accurate" and "THIS" he racked up. And the quicker he was with a burn, the faster he built up those counts.

He was in the midst of brutally dissecting someone's meta on the latest episode of some new show on the History Channel that he didn't even watch but had seen enough posts about to have enough of a gist for this, when a pair of bodies dropped onto the couch on either side of him and another pair of hands pulled his laptop out from under his fingers. He blinked, hands hovering over the empty space where his computer had once been and twitching over its sudden disappearance. He looked up, straight into Bossuet's earnest face, and asked, "What are you doing?" The question was calm enough, but having his well-meaning yet ill-favored friend in possession of his laptop was cause for no small amount of alarm.

The body on Grantaire's left patted his shoulder and Joly's voice accompanied it by saying, "This is an intervention, my friend. You've been sequestered away in your apartment for the entirety of this weekend. You need a break."

Jehan leaned into Grantaire's shoulder from the right and offered a mild complaint which he'd later insist hadn't been whining no matter how much it sounded like it, "And it's been almost a week since you've been out with us! We miss you." Unspoken but clear from the accusation in Jehan's eyes was that he was sorry he'd ever introduced his friend to tumblr.

Was that really true? Had he really not been out with his friends at all this week? Surely that was an exaggeration. Grantaire pulled his phone from his back pocket and checked the date, eyes widening as he mentally counted backwards. Turning to Jehan, he offered up a sheepish grin, "'I live in my own little world, but it's OK... they know me there?'"

Jehan rolled his eyes and poked Grantaire hard in the shoulder, "That's not even tumblr-speak. That's an old bumper sticker."

Grantaire smiled, leaned into Jehan's shoulder in reciprocation of the earlier gesture, "Tumblr users had to have some outlet before tumblr existed, didn't they?" When Jehan's only answer was to roll his eyes again, Grantaire said, "In all seriousness, though... I mean that. I've never in my life been among a group of such kindred spirits. It's... well, you were right, Jehan. It's addicting."

Bossuet chose that moment to add his two cents, "It's a complete time suck, Grantaire. And your friends miss you. Your favorite bartender misses you even more. And since the thought of an entire community full of Grantaires is enough to make _me_ wish for a drink, how about you leave off with it for tonight and come out with us?"

Joly stood up from the couch and held out his hand, "What do you say, then, Grantaire? Drinks on me?"

'Drinks on me.' Those were three words that most of his friends were extremely careful to never utter around Grantaire... and with good reason. Lips stretching into a slow, predatory smile, Grantaire raised his hand to Joly's and let his friend pull him off the couch. "Well... who in their right mind would refuse an offer like that?"

Jehan laughed as he stood and said, "A man who realizes that no sane man would make an offer like that to you - you're a bottomless pit!" He wrapped an arm around Grantaire's and began pulling him towards the door, "Still, let's get to the bar before he changes his mind. You've a lot of lost time to make up for and I don't get my next stipend payment until next week."

Grantaire just laughed and let himself be pulled along.

...and resolutely refused to admit, even to himself, that he was already mentally composing a post about the hilarity of this intervention to queue up upon his return.

* * *

"Free booze or no, after the next one, I'm cutting you off, R."

Grantaire waved a hand in Eponine's face and said, "Nonsense. The night is still young and Joly's pockets are deep."

Eponine rolled her eyes and handed over the drink, "That may be so, but this is your fifth and that's more than enough, already. It's only because I like you that I'm granting you a possible sixth. Don't push me, though, or I'll rescind my good will faster than you can call for another round."

Grantaire took the offered drink and meekly returned to the table his friends had settled at in the corner. It didn't do to irritate one's bartender - especially when one's bartender was also a friend. If Eponine thought he'd had enough - and she'd seen Grantaire more thoroughly sloshed than any other friend he had - then she was most likely right. He'd had enough.

After reclaiming his seat at the table, Grantaire took a slow sip of his drink. His spirit of choice when out was generally whisky, but as Joly was buying the rounds, the drinks had tended more towards rum and cokes. Rum drinks weren't Grantaire's favorites, but they'd get the job done just as quickly and he certainly wasn't one to argue when someone else was paying for his indulgence. As he sat and sipped, and snickered over Jehan's attempts to get Joly to dance with him, he idly wondered what he'd done to tip Eponine into cutting him off. They had made a deal between them, once, early on in their bartender-barfly relationship. Eponine would trust that Grantaire was a professional about these things and knew where his limits were and she would not insult him by cutting him off before he was ready to stop... and Grantaire would trust that Eponine was also a professional and that if she _did_ choose to cut him off it was with good reason.

So, what was the reason? Before he had a chance to really ponder the question, however, a warm body draped itself across his lap and demanded his attention with a blast of alcohol-laced breath, "R, Jolllly's no fun. He won't dance with me. And Bossuet has three left feet. Dance with me, Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr."

Grantaire couldn't help but smile at his friend's tendency to roll his nickname when drunk. And Jehan was drunk. He was very drunk. It never seemed to take much for him because he never drank as heavily as the others in their circle of friends. One Malibu Bay Breeze (for which R had teased him mercilessly) and one Piña Colada (for which R had _not_ teased him, because it was just too easy and thus beneath his dignity) and Jehan had been three sheets to the wind and loving everyone. Then again... Jehan always loved everyone. He was just more demonstrative about it when drunk.

Leaving his drink in Joly's possession - and hoping that Eponine would notice that Bossuet promptly drank it and thus it shouldn't truly count as Grantaire's fifth drink - Grantaire nudged Jehan off his lap and followed him into the cleared area that sometimes acted as a dance floor. Grantaire wasn't really a very good dancer, but he had a certain grace of movement and when deep enough in his drink, he liked to indulge it. Jehan, on the other hand, normally was a good dancer... and became less and less so as drink stole off with his coordination and sense of balance.

It was a short dance.

It was a very short dance.

It ended with Jehan on the floor, laughing as though at the world's most amazing joke, and Grantaire sprawled across the laps of another party and getting thoroughly glared down upon. He handled the glares with aplomb, as he usually did. He was nothing if not a good-natured drunk, and the glares of those drunks who were far less good natured than he had long since ceased to have any relevance in his life. However, when Jehan finally made it to his feet and held out a hand to help Grantaire to his, an apology ready on his tongue for the men they'd tripped over, those glares transferred their target... and Jehan wilted.

With the grace that only a boneless drunk could command, Grantaire took Jehan's lowering hand and rolled to his feet, turning with the motion to both face the other men and to curl Jehan into the crook of his arm. Jehan clung to him for balance - and emotional support, if the shining eyes darting relieved glances at him were any indication - as Grantaire lifted an eyebrow at the glaring party.

The one whose lap Grantaire had just vacated opened his mouth, and if the look in his eyes was any indication, he was about to deliver a truly scathing commentary on their situation. Grantaire didn't give him the chance. He said, "I do beg your pardon, sir. My friend here gives the word 'tipsy' a new meaning every time he's had a drink or two and while my own sense of balance only improves with drink, it was just not up to the task of keeping us both upright. No hard feelings, though, I'm sure?"

Blue eyes narrowed in Grantaire's direction and their owner made a disgusted face before pointedly turning away. One of his companions pushed up his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as though he were in pain. Considering that the Perrier he was indulging in was quite obviously non-alcoholic, Grantaire wondered what the cause of his headache could possibly be. It never crossed Grantaire's mind that it might be himself. The third of their party, on the other hand, rather than turn away in disgust or mime a headache, simply lifted his glass - alcohol, Grantaire approved - and offered up a lopsided smile. Grantaire liked him on sight.

At that gesture of goodwill, the irritated blonde with the blue eyes turned rather abruptly back around to glare at Grantaire, again. "Are you still here?"

Grantaire looked down at himself, then back up at the other man, "Well, now, that's a rather interesting question of philosophy. Are any of us truly here? Or are we mere shadows on the wall of the cave, simply pale imitations of what truly is?"

The companion with the drink buried his snorting laugh into said drink, which quickly turned it into an impressive spate of coughing. The companion with the seltzer lifted his hands and with one, patted his coughing friend on the back while the other clamped onto the wrist of the blonde with those impressive blue eyes. In his own bespectacled gaze was a warning, but whether it was to Grantaire or to his increasingly more irate friend, who was to say?

Both ignored the warning.

The blonde rose up out of his seat and Jehan whimpered at Grantaire's side, tugged uselessly at his sleeve to attempt to pull him away. Grantaire was having none of it. Not when those blue eyes were locked so firmly on his own and the heat and weight of that gaze was a more heady rush than even his four and an eighth drinks - really, Eponine had better not count that one - had given him. It made Grantaire want to fan that warming blaze into a bonfire and dance around it like a savage. He opened his mouth to do just that when a hand clamped down firmly over his mouth from the other side.

Joly. Of course.

Grantaire barely caught it as his friend apologized on his behalf to the three at the table. The one in the glasses waved the apology away with a genteel smile - no harm done, but he couldn't help but note that Joly kept some interesting company.

Joly rolled his eyes and admitted that he did, then doled out some quick introductions. Grantaire ignored them, gaze still locked with the blonde's over Joly's restraining hands. It wasn't until Joly and Jehan, with Bossuet's help, forcibly dragged him back to their table that he was able to move his eyes away. Grantaire was familiar enough with lust at first sight to recognize it when he felt it and familiar enough with reading people to know that the current object of his lust was a lost cause... at least, for now.

When they reached their corner table, Eponine was there already, thumping a glass of bourbon on its surface. Before Grantaire could even open his mouth, Eponine held up a finger and shushed him, "That's twice you tangled with Enjolras tonight and it's clear you already don't remember the first. So, this is all you're getting and no amount of whining or begging on your part is going to change my mind. That man and his friends are nothing but trouble and you're drawn to trouble like a bear to honey and with just as much grace as one." Grantaire then attempted to speak, but Eponine planted a hand firmly over his mouth, her gaze even harder than her hold, "Not in my bar, R." She then pinned the other three at the table with her sharp gaze, "When he's finished that, you take him home. I'm in no mood for this nonsense tonight. Bring him back when he's a sensible drunk, again."

There was nothing for it, then. Grantaire held up his hands in surrender. Satisfied, Eponine made her way back to the bar. Joly rolled his eyes, "Christ, Grantaire, even drunk, I thought you had more sense than this. I should have known better."

Turning a confused gaze on Joly, Grantaire asked, "What's the big deal, anyway? So, the man has a chip on his shoulder the size of the old USSR. The other two seem harmless enough and if I stayed away from everyone on this Earth irritated by the sight of me, I really wouldn't ever leave my apartment."

Jehan dropped his head onto Grantaire's shoulder and sighed, "Yeah, but these guys are hardcore. I've seen them around campus - real social justice warriors. They don't stop with words and protests. They have a reputation for violence and law-breaking when they can't accomplish their goals any other way."

Grantaire leaned over to lean his head on Jehan's, "They wouldn't be the ones who broke into the medical lab and liberated all the animals last month, would they? A little junior high of them, don't you think?"

Joly shook his head and said, "No, that was the university PETA branch. Idiots. As if it's somehow less cruel to release defenseless, captive animals into the 'wilds' of downtown Philadelphia. Poor things probably got run over by cars long before they ever made it to rat paradise. And they probably transmitted plague to half the city on the way."

Jehan moaned and buried his face in Grantaire's shoulder at the thought. Grantaire lifted an arm to wrap it gently around him. After a moment, Jehan lifted his head again and said, "They do plenty else, though. They invade half my club meetings with their ridiculous rhetoric in the guise of poetry. It's always something with them. They've been getting more organized lately, restricting their activities to peaceful actions like rallies and blogging and the like."

Joly added that he thought that was Combeferre's influence. He knew the man from undergraduate school and where the SJW's leader was hot-headed and passionate, he was coolly logical. Jehan rolled his eyes and replied that Joly saw what he wanted to see because he'd had an academic crush on Combeferre ever since first year of undergrad when the other student had so thoroughly trounced his scores into the ground. Joly blushed, but didn't deny it. He did keep his peace after that, however.

Jehan said, "Regardless, at the core, I think they're just as out of control as ever. No one says 'No' to Enjolras for long." He leaned over to prod teasingly at Joly's shoulder, "Even the brilliant Combeferre."

No one says 'No' to Enjolras, hm? Grantaire's lips stretched up into a wide smile. Perhaps it was time someone did. He gave Jehan a gentle squeeze as he lifted his bourbon to take a drink. The memory of those scorching blue eyes on his caused a pleasant shiver to run down the back of his neck and Grantaire knew, just _knew_, that though it was counter to all of his friends' advice, he wouldn't be leaving this one alone. He smirked across the room and lifted his glass to his kindred spirit of that other party, who smiled and lifted his in return. Once he'd knocked back the last of his drink, Grantaire turned back to Jehan and his smile widened. "Blogging, you said? Do they have a tumblr?"

* * *

_**Questions, comments, coconuts?**_

_Confession time:_ I resisted the Les Mis fandom for a _very_ long time. I'm honestly not sure why. I'd seen it three times when I was younger and it was originally on Broadway, but I was young enough that the very idea of fandom hadn't yet entered my subconscious. I'm also not a fan of the modern AU on general principle - high school and coffee shop AUs drive me crazy. Here's the thing, though. The modern AUs in this fandom are flat out _amazing_. To be honest, I'm more than a little intimidated to make my own contribution. But I'm not going to deny it that Les Mis has entirely taken over my entire fannish consciousness this month... and I'm not going to deny that this particular modern AU sank its teeth into my ankle and will not let go. I'm not exactly disappointed by this. This is the most consistent writing I've done in a long time. I've several chapters worth of story ready for posting and I'm going to try to stay ahead of myself a bit. Hopefully this fic will continue to worry at my ankle and not let me ignore it. ^_^

So, here's where my issue comes in. As I'm sure you're aware having gotten through the first part, the language of this story doesn't necessarily match the topic I'm using it to discuss. I like that dichotomy - formal language vs. ...tumblr. Here's my dilemma: I feel like that language is slipping away from me in the parts I'm writing now as the story gets more plot heavy and with more characters involved. I would love to pick up a beta-reader for this thing to help me keep the language consistent and to help pick up any continuity/characterization/SPaG issues there (most certainly) are. If you like what you've read and you think you might be interested... please let me know. You can drop me an ask on tumblr (eirenical), PM me or even just say so in a comment. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

**_May 23, 2013:_** Just wanted to say thanks to all of you for the initial interest! ^_^ In this next chapter there is a bit of a shift to focus more on Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre, but we haven't left the others behind entirely. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**_Follow You, Follow Me - Chapter 2_**  
by _Renee-chan_

* * *

A string of inventive and heartfelt cursing exploded from the next room and Courfeyrac jumped, then jumped again to avoid the hot coffee he'd sloshed out of his mug with that action. He turned towards Combeferre with an irritated frown, "That's the third time today. This is getting ridiculous."

Combeferre sighed and pulled off his glasses to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He leaned back in his chair and turned an eye towards the living room. When no explanation was forthcoming, he called out, "What is it this time, Enjolras?"

The blond picked up his laptop as though it carried some disease, brought it into the kitchen and placed it down between his two friends. The scowl on his face looked as though it were on its way to becoming permanent. He jabbed a finger at the screen and said through clenched teeth, "That." Combeferre obediently fitted his glasses back into place and he and Courfeyrac leaned over to read the offending message.

Approximately one month prior, they'd noticed an oddly regular jump in traffic to their tumblr site, thesjws, but had no idea who had picked up their posts that could have directed such traffic in their direction. They'd tried turning on the function to show the reblogs on the dashboard, but well... Enjolras' rhetoric was popular among students worldwide and his posts were reblogged far too often to figure out which reblog it was that had set off each cascade. However, since each wave seemed to bring new followers to the blog, and even occasionally new members to the meetings, Combeferre had thought it a good thing and been content to leave it at that. Courfeyrac was more bothered by mysteries, in general, but didn't see much point in bothering with one that was actually helping them, so he left it alone, as well. Enjolras, on the other hand... He didn't deal well with mysteries and uncontrolled variables, at all. And this one ate away at him.

Someone out there was boosting their signal enough that it was making a real difference in what they were doing. And whoever it was was clever, too. Variations of their posts showed up all over tumblr, and eventually other social media sites, with witty and sometimes scathing commentary added. Sometimes that commentary was in support of what was said, sometimes against it, but whichever it was, it was always thought provoking. They'd reevaluated their plan of attack on several issues thanks to points brought to light by their rogue follower. And Enjolras was beside himself with his inability to control this sudden wildcard in their deck. It made him irritable - more so even than usual.

This particular post had been about an article written in Time magazine about the millennial generation. Not every millennial was lazy, arrogant and as entitled as the article claimed. Certainly none among their own circle was. Enjolras had fumed about it for days before putting together a scathing burn of the entire article, carefully constructed rebuttal after carefully constructed rebuttal.

Courfeyrac snorted into his hand before turning away to hide his quiet laughter. Overnight, their mystery reblogger had turned every single one of Enjolras' counterarguments into a meme, complete with appropriate illustrations. They were all over, now, and every single one of them pointed back to Enjolras' original post. As a result, their follower count had gone up by nearly fifty just since this morning. But the very irreverence of those memes was the antithesis of everything Enjolras was. For him, the Fight, the Cause - and in Enjolras' mouth, those words truly did resound with capital letters - were of the utmost importance and seriousness. The idea that they could be amusing to anyone - and worse that that humor might accomplish what his gravity had not in bringing more people on board with the SJW agenda - was an insult as severe as a slap in the face.

But even Enjolras couldn't deny the wit and skill behind how this had been managed and that made him more irritable still.

Combeferre handed the laptop back over and said, "I assume you've had no luck tracking our rogue reblogger down, then?"

"None." That word was final and full of disappointment. The sense of failure was clear to read in Enjolras' eyes. Combeferre patted his arm were it hung down to a clenched fist. There was nothing more he could say. They'd been over this before.

Sensing the sudden gravity that had descended over the situation, Courfeyrac stopped his snickering to rejoin them. Taking in the uncharacteristic look of defeat in their fearless leader's face, he reached out to give Enjolras' shoulder a gentle squeeze, "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way." At Enjolras' raised eyebrow, Courfeyrac said, "You can't hope to sort through tens of thousands of reblogs and expect that your eye will catch the first instance of one of these additions - especially as so many of them are in tags and those tags are always added into the text of the post by someone who isn't our reblogger. There's too much data and, as much as you try to hide it, Enjolras, you're only human. Humans are fallible. We get tired. We make mistakes."

A low growl signaled Enjolras' growing irritation with the diversion of topic. "The point, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac smiled, "The point is, this is the age of technology, my friend. That's what computer programs are for - they don't get tired or bored and they don't miss things. Someone has to be able to design a program that could hunt through the reblogs of our various posts, add to it the data of the new followers that come in on these waves of reblogs, and pinpoint the source."

Combeferre picked up the thread of the thought, "And once we know which tumblr account this is coming from, we have a chance to figure out who it is that's doing this-"

"And confront them in the flesh." With the promise of a concrete plan of action and a goal, the blaze was finally back in Enjolras' eyes.

As Courfeyrac left to make a few phone calls to track down someone among their group who could do what he'd suggested, Combeferre watched Enjolras with a worried gaze. They'd been friends a long time, Combeferre and Enjolras, and Combeferre knew all of his friend's moods even better than Enjolras did. He recognized this one all too well. Enjolras was rapidly becoming obsessed with their rogue reblogger, and depending on what they found when they discovered his or her identity, Enjolras might be in for one giant of a letdown. And a let down Enjolras could be unpredictable... and vindictive.

Luckily for them, Courfeyrac's search turned up exactly what they needed. Feuilly, one of their few members who didn't attend the university, was a gifted hacker. Actually, that was _why_ he no longer attended university. He'd been caught once and then kicked out of school for an undetermined length of time. So, now he filled his days with menial jobs and filled his nights with more of the same computer mischief which had gotten him kicked out to begin with. Fortunately, he seemed to only use his skills for good, else Enjolras would never have agreed to use him.

Unbeknownst to any of them, it had been Feuilly's activities that had kept the authorities from looking too closely at their actions when they'd been more marginal in their methods of persuasion. Feuilly had gotten a good laugh over their rogue reblogger and was interested enough in meeting him or her that he eagerly agreed to put his skills at their disposal.

It didn't take long after that. The one they were after had intelligence and wit, but he was no computer genius. Once Feuilly agreed to work his magic, he had a URL for them within a day. One day after that, he'd pinpointed the other's location to within their own city (though knowing Enjolras' penchant for knocking down doors to get what he wanted, he refused to specify any further than that). Even with that restriction, Enjolras had smiled about the matter for the first time in months… because as long as he had an avenue of communication, Enjolras had no doubt he'd soon have their rogue reblogger eating out of his palm and begging to join the Cause properly. It was almost a shame that this would be the first time that Enjolras' stubborn streak had finally met its match.

"Rebus."

"Yes."

"Well, that's a rather uninformative name, isn't it?"

Combeferre sighed and closed his eyes for a moment before answering Enjolras. "It's entirely uninformative, but considering that this person's actions seem designed to retain anonymity, I'd imagine that's rather the point."

Courfeyrac leaned forward onto the table and smiled. "It's clever, really."

Enjolras snorted, "He used a word for his username that basically means 'username'. How is that clever?"

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and sat back up. How was it clever? It just was. But, there was no use trying to explain that to Enjolras. He'd surrounded himself with friends and colleagues who said what they meant and did as they said. Courfeyrac was the least straightforward of all those who could claim that friendship and even he wasn't that much of a mystery. As a result, Enjolras was at a complete loss for how to respond to this. He'd sent direct "asks" to their rogue reblogger asking to meet, using every persuasive tool at his disposal - and an Enjolras bent on being persuasive could talk the moon down out of orbit. They'd been politely declined. He'd started following the other user from his own personal blog and tried to draw him out that way, but that had failed, as well. What hadn't failed was his rapidly growing sense of obsession. The more he was ignored, the more he wanted- the more he _needed_ to meet the other man. And that wasn't healthy. Because the bigger the build-up... the farther the fall. Courfeyrac understood that as well as Combeferre did and it worried him just as much.

A commotion on the other side of the bar drew Courfeyrac's attention before he had thought of an answer to Enjolras' question. Several young men were harassing the bartender. One - a man with a riotous tumble of dark curls and a crooked grin - had pulled her down into his lap and wrapped his arms around her. Courfeyrac frowned and stood. That was unacceptable. Eponine was one of his favorite bartenders. She always topped him off with a little extra when he was running low on cash and he always tipped her well when he wasn't. It was a magnificent arrangement and he didn't like to see her bothered like that.

A steadying hand touched his and Combeferre said quietly, "Maybe I should handle this."

Courfeyrac turned back towards the table to ask why Combeferre thought it best that he defend Eponine's honor... but a glance at Enjolras out of the corner of his eye as he turned quickly revealed why. This had nothing to do with Eponine.

Enjolras was not a man who drank. He only deigned to spend time here at the Musain because they were kind enough to lend the SJWs their upstairs room for little to no money whenever they needed a place for meetings that wasn't on university grounds - an arrangement Courfeyrac was rather proud of and had only come about because of his acquaintance with Eponine. But tonight, Enjolras was on his second drink and looking as though he might reach for a third. Combeferre was of no use when Enjolras drank as an Enjolras who was drunk could be reasoned with even less than one who was sober. Courfeyrac generally had more success handling him on those few occasions when he indulged. Courfeyrac nodded to show he understood and sat back down. Combeferre let a small smile grace his lips, "Besides, I know one of their number and am at least passingly familiar with the rest. Unlike some people, I believe _they_ can be reasoned with." With one last resigned look for their leader, Combeferre rose and headed across the bar to deal with the others.

It really was a joy to watch Combeferre at work in situations like this. When he was so minded, Combeferre could not only coldly gut a man without laying a finger upon them but have the man and his companions thank him for the privilege when he was finished. He'd have made a fantastic lawyer but the mere suggestion was always met with disdain. Combeferre had no use for lawyers - his close friendship with two burgeoning ones notwithstanding - and preferred the rational precision of science. And that was just fine. He'd make a brilliant scientist, as well, probably discover the cure for cancer or the common cold. He'd make a brilliant anything he turned his hand to.

Absorbed as he was in watching Combeferre work, it took Courfeyrac longer than it should have to realize that he'd been speaking his musings out loud and that they were being echoed by the other at his table. He sighed and turned to face Enjolras. Enjolras... Enjolras was another matter, entirely. Courfeyrac had known Enjolras since junior high school and, though brilliantly passionate when moved to it, he'd been repressed in his personal life even then. The more he aged, the more it took to get him to let down his guard and act even a little bit human. He could be so focused that it was a little frightening at times, even for those who knew him well. But once he had a drink or two in him, he not only let down his guard, but he became practically effusive with his praises - and tipped off by Courfeyrac's musing, he was all but singing Combeferre's.

Courfeyrac smiled and ran a gentle hand through Enjolras' hair. He understood. He didn't have to get drunk to admit it, but he had a little bit of a crush on Combeferre, too. A lot of people did - there was just something about the lure of the perfect and unattainable, he supposed. Again, though, for Enjolras, it was different. Admitting admiration, much less attraction, wasn't something he could do sober. There was no room in him for simple considerations like those.

It was something they didn't speak of often - Enjolras' perpetual bachelorhood. It wasn't often he was drunk enough to even consider the question and even Courfeyrac didn't dare pursue that topic with his friend when he was sober. He wasn't sure even Enjolras knew who or what he was attracted to, sometimes - or even if he was attracted to anyone so much as he was to his zeal for his causes. The one time that Courfeyrac had tried to set him up with someone, it had ended so disastrously that he hadn't had the courage to try, again... yet.

By that point, Combeferre had finished his discussion and was returning to their table. He was shaking his head. When he arrived, however, before he could even open his mouth, Enjolras opened his.

"You are the smartest man I know, Combeferre. Have I ever told you that? I mean... you're _very_ smart."

Combeferre met Courfeyrac's widened eyes and a genuine smile tipped the corner of his lips upwards. He took Enjolras' outstretched hand in his own and gave it a gentle squeeze. He didn't respond in words, but that action and that smile were all the answer Enjolras needed. He lowered his head to his outstretched arm and closed his eyes, a soft smile of his own gracing his lips.

An eyebrow lifted, Combeferre turned towards Courfeyrac, who was just barely keeping his laughter quiet behind the palm of his hand, and said, "He is going to be even more unpleasant than usual when he sobers up if he remembers this." When Courfeyrac shrugged in response, Combeferre pulled his hand from Enjolras' now lax grip to pinch the bridge of his nose in a clear 'Why me?' gesture. He asked, "You were supposed to be watching him. Exactly how many drinks did he have whilst I was occupied?"

Courfeyrac was about to answer, 'Just the two,' when he realized that his own glass was a good deal emptier than it had been when Combeferre had left. In fact, it was completely empty. And it had been full when Courfeyrac had last looked. He blinked down into his empty glass and said, "Well... I thought just the two, but I'm also pretty certain that I don't recall starting, much less finishing, my drink, so I'm going to say he's had three."

"You were drinking Long Island Iced Teas, weren't you?" Combeferre's voice was pained. Eponine made Courfeyrac's special for him - heavy on the vodka. Which meant that it would have gone down even easier than usual... and hit Enjolras like a ton of bricks. That explained quite a lot. Combeferre huffed out a short laugh as he took a sip of his own drink and lifted Courfeyrac's empty glass in Eponine's direction to indicate they'd like to replace what had been inside it. His final word on the subject was, "Forget unpleasant - he's going to kill you when he wakes up."

As they waited for Eponine to make Courfeyrac's drink, the discussion turned to Enjolras, as it often did. For if Courfeyrac and Enjolras had a bit of a crush each on Combeferre, it was also true that Combeferre and Courfeyrac had a bit of one on Enjolras. That mutual crushing should have been enough, but unlike himself, both of Courfeyrac's friends were a little hopeless in the romance department. It was almost a shame, really. Combeferre was good for Enjolras, always had been. He brought out the best in those around him and Enjolras was all the calmer, all the more rational, all the more effective for his influence. And Enjolras brought out passion in Combeferre like no one else. They'd have been good for each other and Courfeyrac had, more than once, considered encouraging them towards each other... until he remembered what had happened the last time he'd tried to interfere in Enjolras' love life. That was more than enough to encourage him to keep his peace.

Besides, if there was any man who kept his romantic assignations even more private than Enjolras, it was Combeferre. Other than a vague rumor of someone seeing Combeferre eating dinner with a girl once their first year in college - and that was hardly definitive proof of sexuality - Courfeyrac knew even less about Combeferre's romantic predilections than he did Enjolras'. What he did know, however, was that his interference wouldn't be welcome - as far as Combeferre was concerned, that would be as impractical as rocking a boat you were sitting in. And to an extent, Courfeyrac agreed. The balance between they three worked. It worked well. That mutual admiration and appreciation between them kept them close and provided for a wealth of support whenever it was needed. It meant that they got things accomplished that others could only dream of accomplishing. But, still...

As though sensing the track Courfeyrac's thoughts had taken - it was a track they often took when Enjolras was drunk and insensate after spewing praises at one of them, after all - Combeferre said rather pointedly, "We have quite enough on our plates without you getting ideas. Not everyone wishes to engage in complicated romantic relationships while completing a rigorous course of graduate study."

Courfeyrac laughed and said, "And that is why some people are wound so tightly they can't admit they enjoy their friends' company without getting drunk to do it."

Combeferre finished off his scotch and said, "For the sake of our friendship, I'm going to pretend you were referring solely to Enjolras when you made that statement."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, my friend."

Conveniently for Courfeyrac, that was the moment Eponine indicated that she had his drink ready at the bar. Leaving Combeferre to watch over Enjolras, Courfeyrac made his way over. Before he could lavish one of his typically effusive greetings, however, Eponine pulled his drink away and lifted a finger to shake in his face, "I'll thank you to remember in the future that I am more than capable of handling myself within my own bar. You do not need to be - or to send Combeferre to be - my knight in shining armor unless I specifically ask it. Is that clear?"

As Courfeyrac blinked in confusion, trying to figure out exactly how he'd ended up in the wrong in this situation, the man who'd been harassing Eponine earlier stepped up to his rescue. Pushing his empty glass across the bar, the man said, "Don't mind Eponine. She's still irritated that I got the drop on her to begin with." Ignoring her as best he could as she whipped him with the bar rag, he continued, "I don't believe you and I were properly introduced the last time we met, but I must say it's nice to finally meet the other regular in Eponine's life." He held out his hand. "Grantaire."

"Courfeyrac." 'The other regular,' hm? That explained Eponine's reaction. The relationship between bartender and patron was surely not an exclusive one and from the looks of irritated affection Eponine was sending in Grantaire's direction, he was a fairly constant presence in this bar. And that meant that what Courfeyrac had sent Combeferre to interrupt had been heavy-handed teasing, not cruel harassment. He should have remember that about Eponine - she was more than capable of fending off unwanted advances and generally became rather vocally and physically vehement about it when said advances were pursued against her wishes. His friend Bahorel had found that out the hard way once. Once had been all it took.

As he shook hands with Grantaire on it, however - no hard feelings, of course - Courfeyrac frowned. "When had we met? I believe I'd recall having met you. You seem to leave an impression."

Grantaire swept him an overblown bow, as though that fact were the highest of compliments. "It was a little more than a month ago. Jehan and I had the great fortune to... hm." He smiled, a mischievous twinkle beginning to shine in his eyes as he finished, "...stumble over you, you could say, as we were attempting to dance."

Courfeyrac's eyes narrowed as he thought back, then widened again as he remembered the incident in question. He smiled. "Ah, yes. Now, I remember. Enjolras had quite a bit to say about your character and probable ancestry on the way home. I was impressed. I hadn't realized he'd known half of those words."

Grantaire laughed. "Well, I'm glad to have inspired such eloquence. Is he here tonight? Perhaps I can inspire more."

They both turned towards Courfeyrac's table. Enjolras was still sound asleep and Combeferre was still watching over him, a tender smile on his face that he'd have denied was there to his dying breath if Courfeyrac had attempted to call him on it. Courfeyrac sighed. It really was a shame...

"Pining?"

Courfeyrac winced as he turned back to Grantaire and Eponine. That was a little closer to the truth than he really wished to share with someone who was virtually a stranger, so he simply said, "It's complicated."

Grantaire's eyebrow lifted and a smirk spread over his features, "Well, now. I think we all know what that means, these days."

Eponine reached out a hand to touch Grantaire's shoulder and just shook her head. Bless her heart. He really didn't want to have to explain the codependant complications which were his friendships with Combeferre and Enjolras.

What Eponine did say was, "Courfeyrac, do you want me to call you boys a cab? Enjolras is clearly done in and I can't imagine you want to let him sleep it off in the bar."

When Courfeyrac nodded, Grantaire smiled and mouthed, "You're a cab!" Eponine's gentle touch turned into a not entirely gentle thwack to the back of Grantaire's head. She shook a finger at him and said, "You've already tested my goodwill enough for one night, R. Be nice."

Grantaire held up his hands in surrender and picked up the glass that Eponine had been kind enough to refill for him while they'd been talking. "I'll leave you to it, then, and return to minding my own business."

It wasn't until later that night, as he and Combeferre were manhandling Enjolras out of his clothes and into his bed that it occurred to Courfeyrac that talking to Grantaire had felt far too comfortable, as though he'd been speaking with an old friend, no matter how briefly. Eventually he chalked it up to his own blurred senses and his tendency to consider every fellow drinker a friend once he'd had a few, but that thought wouldn't entirely leave him. In fact, it set up camp in the back of his mind and settled in for a good, long wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**_May 25, 2013:_** Thank you all, again, for your continued interest! ^_^ In this chapter, the plot continues to thicken, another important character is introduced... and Courfeyrac finally meets Rebus. *dun dun dun!*

Mostly, though, I posted this note to let you know that I've reached the end of what I already had written and, unfortunately, didn't have as much time to write this week as I'd have liked. So, there may be a bit of a posting hiatus while I get more written. Sorry about that, but I hope you enjoy this chapter in the meantime! ^_^

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**_Follow You, Follow Me - Chapter 4_**  
by _Renee-chan_

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"I know you're in the city. I could find you if I truly wished. Meet with me."

Gantaire read the message, again... and again... and again. There was so much contained in those few words. It had been almost three months since he'd started this game with Enjolras via tumblr. Since figuring out his tumblr name, Enjolras had changed tactics, started following him from his own account - and really who used their real name for their tumblr? - sending him message after message, demanding he cease his activities, demanding he show more respect for the cause... eventually demanding to meet. That had been unexpected, though looking back, it probably shouldn't have been. And _damn_ it, the man was persuasive! But, Grantaire was having far too much fun to end the game, now. It amused him how much it rankled Enjolras not to know what Grantaire was going to do with his posts. It amused him even more imaging how it must infuriate Enjolras to know that he owed the SJW's recent upswing in popularity to someone he didn't know and couldn't control.

More than that though - more than the amusement, more than the appeal of helping the man without having to truly invest in his causes... more than that, Grantaire was afraid. He'd crossed paths with Enjolras and his friends at the Musain more than once since that first time and while Joly got on with Combeferre like a house on fire and Courfeyrac seemed to have latched on to Grantaire and Jehan, the only one of their number whom Enjolras ever deigned to speak with was Bossuet. Everything about Bossuet was non-threatening - barring his reverse Midas touch - and he was often content to sit and listen as Enjolras expounded on whatever cause had him on fire that week. He'd even gone to a few of the SJW's meetings, came back all on fire, himself, and Enjolras loved nothing more than a new convert to the cause - whatever cause it was.

The point, however, was that as obsessed as Enjolras was with 'Rebus' - and he was obsessed, of that Grantaire had no doubt - he had no patience at all for Grantaire. Grantaire chuckled. Who'd have thought? He'd become Clark Kent to Enjolras' Lois Lane... and no matter how deeply Clark might come to feel for Lois, he could never compete with Superman - because Superman was of the best parts of his own self.

"Brilliantly played, Grantaire. Becoming your own competition was not the brightest move you could have made." Grantaire shook his head in disgust, then finished off the wine in his glass in one gulp. It was easy on tumblr. It was easy to pretend to an intelligence and a wit that he never felt he possessed in person. It was easy to keep Enjolras interested when their entire conversation revolved around things about which Enjolras was passionate. But that wasn't real. Grantaire, himself, was a person, not just a reflection of Enjolras. He had needs, interests, desires, which had nothing whatsoever to do with Enjolras' revolutionary zeal. And he was far from perfect. He drank too much. He didn't put enough effort into his studies. He drifted from major to major, never satisfied with what he'd decided on, never gaining enough credits in any one direction to culminate in a degree yet too terrified of the ramifications of leaving school, by graduation or otherwise, to attempt to change it. He didn't live up to his potential - or so Joly was always saying. He didn't care enough. He cared too much. He wasted his time in meaningless pursuits just because they amused him.

In short... Grantaire was a disappointment. It wasn't exactly news. He'd been a disappointment all of his life - to his mother because he wasn't serious enough and couldn't be trusted with even the most minor of familial responsibility, to his father because he wasn't beautiful enough and their family had a standard to uphold, to his teachers because they saw the potential in him and wrung their hands when they were incapable of bringing it out of him. He was a disappointment to everyone... including himself.

Grantaire was disappointed in himself because everyone felt he should be, because he could see no redeeming value in his life except a tremendous tolerance for alcohol and a penchant for petty scribbling. He'd taken an art course once in high school, in fact. Yet another disappointment. Except... his teacher hadn't been disappointed. In fact, Ms. Gros stood out as the solitary adult figure in Grantaire's life to that point and since, who hadn't been. No, the disappointment had, again, been his parents' - for wasting time on frivolous pursuits when his grades were already suffering. And that had been the end of that brief flare of self-worth. And that was all there was. Disappointment. Disillusionment. And Grantaire knew Enjolras well enough by now to know that if he were to reveal that Enjolras' venerated 'Rebus' was none other than the drunken wastrel he disdained whenever their paths were unfortunate enough to cross... he would quickly be added to the list of people Grantaire had disappointed in his life.

Bitter vitriol churning in his gut, Grantaire typed back, "I know you, Enjolras, but you do not know me. If you could have tracked me down you would have done so by now. I've no use for your empty threats and even less use for the things ~you~ think you want. Try again, love."

Grantaire lifted the wine bottle and took a pull straight from it. When he put it back down, he slumped back into the couch cushions and frowned at the "Message sent!" that popped up on his screen. He muttered darkly, "Decipher that, if you can, Enjolras."

There was no response from Enjolras, but five minutes later, he had a new message in his Inbox from loveslabourswon - it hadn't taken Grantaire long at all to figure out that that was tumblr parlance for 'Courfeyrac' - which said quite simply, "You're an ass."

Grantaire responded with, "~I'm~ an ass? I've done nothing but boost your signal for three months and instead of being grateful, he threatens me!"

"~sigh~ He doesn't deal well with mysteries and you are a very large, very pink elephant of a mystery, Rebus. He doesn't have a great wealth of patience to begin with and you constantly taunting him makes him more irritable than usual."

"Well, how sad. I happen to like being a mystery and intend to remain one for the foreseeable future. If he doesn't like it, too bad for him."

"Too bad for ~him~? How about too bad for ~me~? How about too bad for everyone who has to be around him on a daily basis? I appreciate all you've been doing to help, you know I do, but we're the ones suffering for this game between the two of you, not you."

Grantaire paused in the act of replying, tried to decide if he was being played or not. Courfeyrac had a tendency to exaggerate his feelings, especially when they were hurt feelings, and he wasn't above playing it up just to get what he wanted. Still... Courfeyrac was right. The game had to change somehow… In the end, Grantaire typed five words - five words that changed everything.

"The Musain. 9:30. Come alone."

Combeferre leaned over Courfeyrac's phone and smiled a grim smile, "He took the bait?"

Courfeyrac nodded, "He took the bait." The response to his next message - how he would know who he was looking for - was simply, 'You'll know me when you see me.' Courfeyrac sighed, ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, "I don't like this, Combeferre. I don't like doing this behind his back." He jerked his head towards the other room where Enjolras was still pacing and ranting to the potted plants over Rebus' response to his latest demand for a meeting.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Combeferre said, "You agree that we need to know what he's jumping into before we let him jump, yes?" Without even waiting for an answer, he continued, "Because at this point, when he finally meets whoever this is, they're going to pick up speed like a runaway train after all this build up. _We_ need to know which way to jump when that finally happens. We need information. I refuse to go into this blind, and Rebus seems to get along with you best of the few of us who have had contact with him. You're our best chance - and if you think I didn't wish it were different and I could go in your place, think again."

"You're right. Of course, you're right." Courfeyrac sighed, then grumped, "But that still doesn't mean I have to like it."

When 9:30 finally came around, Courfeyrac was at the Musain and more nervous than he'd ever been before a date - perhaps because this wasn't a date. It was far more important than that because in very real way... he was screening a potential date for Enjolras. And his interference in Enjolras' love life had always gone disastrously in the past. He wasn't up to this task. What had Combeferre been thinking? Combeferre should have come. Rebus had never met either or them, so how would he know the difference? Surely Combeferre could have faked being him for one night. Or Feuilly - Feuilly was a roll-with-the-punches, unflappable sort. Or Bahorel - Bahorel's no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners attitude would have been far better suited to this situation. Even having Marius there would have been a bonus. Courfeyrac's roommate might not be as involved with the SJWs as Courfeyrac, but Marius had a bright optimism to him that never quit and Courfeyrac could have used a dose of it right about now. But, like so often before, what he wanted wasn't important - what he had to do was. And what he had to do was walk into that bar and meet Rebus. G-d help them both.

Courfeyrac took a moment once he was inside to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting and to surreptitiously scan the place for anyone who might be Rebus. There were a few people scattered around the pool table playing a congenial game of 8 ball - at least it was congenial for now. Courfeyrac recognized Eponine's little brother, Gavroche, among their number. The little urchin was known for hustling a game or two when the mood struck and no, Courfeyrac hadn't been victim to that particular scheme, thank you very much, no matter _what_ Gavroche said about it. He'd been playing along, trying to help the child out, nothing more. Either way, as he was relatively certain that Gavroche wasn't Rebus and that none of those playing were, either, Courfeyrac moved on in his inspection.

Eponine's other barfly, Grantaire, was in his usual corner with his coterie of friends, laughing over something or another that Jehan was saying. When he caught sight of Courfeyrac in the doorway, his smile widened and he waved him over. Courfeyrac smiled back but shook his head. As much as he enjoyed knocking back a few with that group when Combeferre and Enjolras weren't around to spew their disapproving glances over the proceedings, he had more important business tonight.

There weren't many others sitting at the tables, and somehow Courfeyrac had known that he wouldn't find who he was looking for hidden amongst them. He'd be at the bar - it seemed Rebus' style. Eponine was at one end, washing out glasses, and again, Courfeyrac was relatively certain that it wasn't her. There was only one other figure at the bar - tall, curvy, with skin the color of sun-warmed bronze and a wealth of blond hair cascading in waves down her back - yes, _her_, for she was decidedly a she. That was not something Courfeyrac had expected. He stepped up to the bar and settled onto a stool two seats away from her, trying to get a feel for who she was. Eponine dumped a drink in front of him with a barely hidden scowl and Courfeyrac was so busy trying to readjust his expectations that he didn't even bother asking what he'd done to earn it. He'd just walked in, for goodness' sake. Surely, for once, Eponine's foul temper wasn't his fault.

After a few minutes of observing the blond rolling her glass of wine back and forth between her hands, Courfeyrac finally got up the nerve to lean in and ask, "Rebus?"

The woman turned, smiled, and slipped him a wink before saying in response, "You must be loveslabourslost. I told you you'd know me when you saw me. It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance." She dipped her gaze away from his for a moment, a secretive smile alighting on her features before she looked back up and said, "But in the interest of polite conversation," she held out her hand for Courfeyrac to shake, "I am called Cosette. Surely your friends call you something more conversationally appropriate, as well? I'll feel rather silly addressing you by your tumblr name all night."

As Courfeyrac introduced himself on autopilot, his mind set off on a desperate whirl. In spite of having discussed the possibility that Rebus might be a woman, they'd never seriously considered it. On some level, they'd all thought Rebus was a man like themselves. Surely this changed the game. It had to. Didn't it? At the very least, it explained why Rebus had always declined Enjolras' somewhat aggressive demands for a meeting. It explained why Rebus had been so very unforthcoming with any personal details, why she was always so coquettish in her little game of cat and mouse with Enjolras. It explained so very much.

And, damn it all, unless Courfeyrac really had missed his mark judging Enjolras' preferences, he suspected that any chance he'd had of brokering a relationship between Rebus and Enjolras had just gone abysmally down the tubes. Still, he didn't know anything for sure, and it couldn't hurt to try... could it?

Eponine made her way over to Grantaire's table with their refill order for drinks, one eye on Courfeyrac and the other on her girlfriend. It was a wonder she didn't take a tumble on the way or spill a drink. Courfeyrac would flirt with anything that moved and she didn't like the way he was leaning over Cosette. She didn't like the way that his arm was so close, his fingers almost brushing Cosette's where they rested on the bar. She didn't like the way that his eyes lingered over her features as though memorizing them for later use. Most of all, though, she didn't like how Cosette was flirting back. It was all a game, she knew, and one Cosette was skilled at - had been since they'd been girls - but Eponine never would have agreed to it if Cosette hadn't been so overwhelmingly cheerful and excited by the thought of the ruse when Grantaire had suggested it in the first place.

Speaking of... Eponine thumped the tray down in the middle of the table and fought the urge to throw Grantaire's drink in his face. "If he lays even one, single _finger_ on her, I will kill you deader than dead, Grantaire, and don't think I won't."

When Grantaire held up his hands in surrender, then meekly extended one of them to take his drink, Eponine snatched it up before he could reach it and downed it in one gulp. She might not usually indulge while working, but that didn't mean she couldn't knock a few back with the best of them - and right now, she needed it. The nerve of Grantaire to involve Cosette in sorting out this mess just because he hadn't been able to keep away from Enjolras like Eponine had advised! She grabbed Jehan's drink out of his hand, made a face at the first sip - really, who drank Malibu Bay Breezes in the middle of winter? - then slammed that one back, as well. It was a good thing that Cosette was made of far sterner stuff than she appeared to be. She really was more than capable of handling Courfeyrac, even at his worst, and Eponine _did_ trust her... but she still didn't like this. Not one bit.

Grantaire - Grantaire, of all people! - grabbed Eponine's hands before she could reach for Joly's drink, too, and shook his head. The look of sympathy on his face was too much - Eponine didn't need it, didn't want it, was pissed as hell that he was trying to feed it to her - but when she tried to punch it off of his face, Grantaire used her half-hearted momentum to gather her up in his arms, tuck her head under his chin and start gently rocking her back and forth. As she reluctantly allowed herself to be soothed, Eponine said quietly, yet vehemently, "I hate you."

"I know, love. I know you do." That was all he said on the matter, but he kept up that infernal rocking until Cosette whistled for her from the bar. That was her cue.

She rang up Courfeyrac's tab - and he'd had the nerve to presume to pay for Cosette's drink, as if Cosette ever paid for drinks in Eponine's bar! After all, it was thanks to Cosette's father that Eponine even _had_ a bar - and watched as he went on his way with a dazed smile on his face. Only the fact that Cosette broke into a spate of amused snickering at his expense once he'd gone allowed Eponine to relax from the tense posture she'd been in since this thing began. Cosette made a face and asked, "Dear Lord, is he always like that?"

Eponine leaned over the bar to take Cosette's hand in hers. Cosette obliged by pressing that hand gently to the curve of her face. At the eyebrow Cosette arched in her direction, Eponine finally laughed. "Actually, he was on his best behavior, tonight. Usually, he's far worse." She straightened, spoke her next words in Grantaire's direction, thoroughly enjoying watching him choke on his drink as those words hit home. "Then again, he wasn't flirting on his own behalf, was he? He was flirting on Enjolras'."

Cosette turned in Grantaire's direction, as well, smile full of as much desire for mischief as Eponine's. "Is that so? Well, sir, you didn't tell me I'd be playing Christian to your Cyrano in this farce, as well! That may cost you extra - things don't end well for Christian, you know."

At Grantaire's bewildered, "I'm paying you?" both Eponine and Cosette began to laugh. When Cosette calmed, she reassured him that she had agreed to play this particular role for fun and that really, this just spiced things up a bit, but it was clear that they now had some planning to do. A quick nod to Eponine had her shooing everyone else out of the bar and putting up the closed sign. Eponine then brought over another round of drinks and she and Cosette settled in at the table with the others. Gavroche grumbled at her and started cleaning up the tables - and if he pocketed the tips, well. Just this once, Eponine wouldn't say anything.

Cosette leaned in towards Grantaire and said, "In all earnestness, Grantaire, I want to help. You've done Eponine a good turn more than once and my father always taught me to not only pay my debts, but to pay forward any acts of kindness I can, as well. However, it's now clear that there is quite a bit more going on here than you initially let on. Until I know the rest of the details, this is as far as I go. Deal?" Grantaire swallowed hard but agreed readily enough. Cosette reached out a hand to pat one of his. "Good. Then why don't you start at the beginning?"


	4. Chapter 4

**_May 29, 2013:_** Thank you to all the lovely people who have commented on this story and who have followed me to my tumblr to give encouragement, as well! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. ^_^

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_**Follow You, Follow Me - Chapter 4**_  
by _Renee-chan_

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Nothing much changed over the next few weeks. Grantaire continued playing his game with Enjolras as Rebus on tumblr and Cosette occasionally played hers with Courfeyrac at the Musain. Courfeyrac's attempts to discern more about her and how she felt about his fearless leader were always met with gentle, skilled misdirection - truly, Grantaire was glad that Cosette was on his side in this. He'd not wish to be her enemy for anything in the world.

Eponine was still irritable about the whole thing, but she did like Grantaire and was glad enough that he'd come to her for help to begin with that she kept her peace. The fact that Cosette was having such fun with the whole thing certainly didn't hurt. However, she drew the line - absolutely drew the line - when Cosette said she was going to let Courfeyrac talk her into coming to one of the SJW's rallies. Cosette had rolled her eyes, explained that she wasn't planning to go as Rebus, just as Cosette, a fellow student. Only Courfeyrac would know the 'truth,' and if Eponine was really that worried about it, she could come with. In the end, they'd both decided to go and Joly agreed to go along with them. Cosette and Grantaire had had an extensive planning session beforehand to catch her up on the most recent debates he and Enjolras had had on tumblr. She was as prepared as he could make her. And if a very small part of him wished that he was going in her place... well, it was a very small part and he shushed it the way he always did - with drink.

Grantaire made one last post to tumblr that night, then handed his computer off to Jehan. It wouldn't do to have Rebus responding to new posts while Cosette was at the rally. That would give her away to Courfeyrac and the game would be well and truly over. What Grantaire hadn't anticipated, however was how difficult it would be to stay away. By noon, he was already awake and a bit fretful, missing his daily sparring matches with Enjolras more than he'd thought possible. In quiet desperation for a distraction, he eventually let Jehan talk him into a movie (something childish and ridiculous and far more tear inducing than any animated movie had a right to be, and really could Jehan _get_ any more clichéd in his tastes?), but found it nigh impossible to focus on anything other than the fact that he'd had no contact with Enjolras in over twelve hours... and that Cosette was probably meeting him even now.

...and that opened up an entirely new can of worries. Because, what if Enjolras fell for her? Cosette was beautiful, one of the few people Grantaire had ever met who could give Enjolras competition in the pure looks department, and she was brilliant and strong and she wouldn't let Enjolras take her for granted. How could he _not_ fall in love with her? Grantaire really hadn't thought this through.

Then again, if Cosette was the only person Grantaire knew who could match Enjolras' beauty, there was also only one person Grantaire knew who could match Enjolras in stubbornness - Eponine. And Eponine had made it quite clear that where Cosette went, she would go. It wasn't that she didn't trust Cosette - she did. It was that she didn't trust men around Cosette. Some of them didn't understand that 'No' meant 'No.' And Cosette understood her lover's insecurities well enough to cater to them without letting them suffocate either of them. Besides, Eponine's overprotectiveness made Cosette's fathers happy and that was not something to be lightly pushed aside. It prevented her from having to shake a trail of bodyguards everywhere she went. So, Cosette could take care of herself and Eponine could handle Enjolras and it would all be just _fine_ and he should just stop worrying about it all- Jesus, he needed a drink.

Knowing that they wouldn't see the others until much later that evening and tired of managing him alone and sober, Jehan took pity on Grantaire and agreed to join him at the Corinthe. Unlike the Musain, the Corinthe did most of its business later at night, catering to the club crowds on their way out for the night and then later again, on their way home. It was across town from the Musain and due to the composition of its crowd, not one that Grantaire and his friends frequented often, but the atmosphere was friendly enough - due in no small part to Joly's on-again, off-again girlfriend, and the Corinthe's proprietor, Musichetta. Because, no matter what the state of their relationship, Musichetta was always kind to Joly's friends.

When Jehan and Grantaire arrived, the place was fairly dead. In fact, other than Bossuet and Musichetta, there was no one else there. Bossuet was sitting at the bar and hanging on Musichetta's every word. And Musichetta's every word seemed to be a listing of Joly's faults. Ah. Seemed as though they were 'off again' at the moment. That happened sometimes, whenever Joly's eccentricities got the better of him and Musichetta needed a break.

Grantaire and Jehan slid onto stools on either side of Bossuet and Grantaire gave Musichetta a hopeful look. He wasn't really interested in the drama in Musichetta and Joly's relationship right now. He had enough drama in his own life, far more than he liked. What he wanted was a quiet corner in which he could get thoroughly and monumentally drunk - enough to forget all that drama. Musichetta matched him stare for stare for a moment before rolling her eyes and giving in to the inevitable and simply putting a glass and a bottle of Wild Turkey next to Grantaire on the bar. "If you're going to drink me dry, you can at least pour your own drinks and stay out of my hair."

Sliding a twenty across to her, Grantaire made off with his appropriated drink and settled into a table in the corner. He liked corners, liked the protection of having the wall at his back, liked the fact that he had a view of everyone in the room but they didn't have the same view of him. It wasn't paranoia. He just didn't like to be surprised. Too much in his life surprised him as it was. Pouring a generous amount of bourbon into his glass, Grantaire set about doing the one thing he truly excelled at - making the alcohol inside the bottle disappear.

Musichetta watched as Grantaire made off with his bottle and sank into a determined slouch in the corner of the bar. Even for Grantaire, it looked like he was going to settle in for some far more serious drinking than usual. And if there was one thing Musichetta had noticed about Grantaire, it was this: though he enjoyed his drink for its own sake, he usually seemed to use it more as a social prop. He was more comfortable around a crowd with a glass in his hands and a fire in his belly from the drink and normally he had it well under control, never indulged more than was safe and never indulged when it was irresponsible to do so. Tonight, though... tonight seemed different. The drink was its own end tonight. She wasn't sure she liked that and said so.

Jehan nodded, "I noticed that, myself. I'm pretty sure I even know why, but it isn't my secret to tell." He sighed, eventually shook the thoughts of the friend he couldn't help from his head and turned back to the one he could. "I don't suppose I can prevail upon you for a Shirley Temple?"

When Bossuet snorted out a laugh at the question, Musichetta reached out and gently smacked him on the shoulder, "Bossuet, be nice. Not everyone has to drink straight vodka to be welcome here and I, for one, am always glad to see one of you being responsible when everyone else around you is determined not to be." She put the requested drink down in front of Jehan and tossed in three extra cherries as an apology for Bossuet's behavior.

Bossuet grinned sheepishly at Jehan and shrugged. No hard feelings. Jehan just smiled and lifted his drink to take a sip. It really had been a tough afternoon, trying to keep Grantaire occupied with Cosette and Eponine at the rally and him unable to even engage in his favorite form of distraction for fear of outing Cosette to Courfeyrac as 'not-Rebus'. Still, he'd been on his best behavior for Jehan. Grantaire had even let Jehan drag him to see Wreck It Ralph at the college theatre, and normally Grantaire wouldn't be caught dead at a kids' movie - much less sobbing his way through the end of one.

Jehan sighed, then deliberately turned his thoughts back away from Grantaire. Only time and Cosette's report of her meeting Enjolras would fix what was bothering Grantaire, right now. Jehan refocused on Musichetta, determined to at least help one of his friends, today. "So, am I to take it that you and Joly are having difficulties, again?"

Musichetta rolled her eyes at the conspicuous change of subject, but allowed it nonetheless. She knew as well as he why he'd done it. "I love the man to death, Jean Prouvaire. I really do. The problem is that there are days when it feels like his love is suffocating me." She waved a hand around the room before slapping it down on the bar, "I am proud of what I do. I am _damned_ proud of what I do. I run a clean establishment and we have never had a problem with health code violations, even with the crowd we draw and that is no small feat, let me tell you. In fact, given Joly's regular visits, I keep this place clean enough that even he could eat straight off the floor with little difficulty."

Jehan winced in sympathy, understanding easily enough where this was going. Joly's OCD had only gotten worse since starting medical school, though all his friends had hoped it would go the other way, and occasionally he drove them to distraction with his need to keep things practically sterile. He'd mastered the art of tamping it down in public and to the outside observer seemed health-and-cleanliness-conscious but no more than your average medical student. Unfortunately, the effort of keeping it under wraps in public made him ten times worse in private with the people he was close to. Like Grantaire with his drinking, Joly was smart enough to engage in his worst behaviors around people he knew would forgive him for it. And poor Musichetta was the one who most often suffered when he got himself in a spin.

Musichetta finally rounded on Bossuet and said, "Honestly, how on Earth do you live with the man? The few times I've spent the night, he all but followed me around the house with a Dustbuster and I know I'm less accident prone than you _and_ I always clean up after myself! I'm not a child."

Bossuet shrugged and said, "I don't mind." At Musichetta and Jehan's looks of utter disbelief, he smiled sheepishly. "I really don't. He lets me stay with him for practically nothing so I can afford my tuition. Compared to that kindness, the kindness of indulging his OCD is nothing. And since we both know that it's a given that at some point I'm going to spill something or drop something, he doesn't have to stress about the possibility of it happening and just knows to prepared for the eventuality that it will. That takes the worry out of it for him and allows him to feel proactive instead of reactive. And since I know how much it means to him to have a clean place and we're both happier for the company, I don't fuss about him following me around with the Dustbuster so _I_ don't have to stress about the fact that eventually I'll screw up and make a mess. I know I will. He knows I will. I know he'll then obsessively clean up after me and there are no hard feelings between us. It works and keeps us both happy and relatively de-stressed."

Musichetta put a hand to her head and muttered something under her breath that sounded like, "You pair of knuckleheads deserve each other," but when asked, she denied that that was what she'd said and refused to repeat it.

They passed the rest of the evening with Musichetta and Bossuet, helping to cover the bar when early customers came in and wanted something to eat. Grantaire spent a fair portion of the day drinking quietly in the corner, but it wasn't until Musichetta caught him trying to sneak away from the bar with a second full bottle of bourbon that any of them realized exactly how much he'd drunk. Musichetta took the bottle away from him, ordered him back to his corner and bustled off to the kitchen to fix a pot of coffee and some dinner for the four of them.

Grantaire complained loudly about this unfair treatment, but Jehan reminded him that he wasn't going to want to hear what Cosette had to say while still this drunk. Grantaire's return volley contained a significant number of curse words and other insults and summed up to, "The hell I wouldn't!" and "You're not the boss of me!" Jehan didn't even dignify that answer with a response, his silence speaking louder than words ever could of his disapproval of Grantaire's behavior.

Grantaire passed the rest of the evening in sullen silence, barely touching the food that Musichetta had put in front of him and disdaining the coffee altogether, claiming that if he'd wanted to be sober, he wouldn't have drunk so deeply of the bottle in the first place. There was no reasoning with him when he got like this, so they left him to his own devices. Jehan just fervently wished that the walk over to the Musain would sober him up.

...it didn't.

9:30 PM. Jehan, Bossuet and Grantaire had beaten Cosette, Eponine and Joly to the Musain - not by much, but by just enough. Grantaire had sat down on the sidewalk in front of the door and starting humming under his breath, eyes glazed and willfully unseeing. Jehan stared down at him in disbelief. The Corinthe was on the other side of town. They'd walked. It was freezing cold, but Jehan had insisted, hoping the cold air would do Grantaire some good and sober him up a little. If anything, it seemed to have had the opposite effect and he was more drunk than when they'd started.

It wasn't until Jehan asked Bossuet to run around the back to check if the employee entrance was open that he figured out why. As he turned back to Grantaire, Jehan caught him quickly tucking something back inside his coat. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Jehan reached out and grabbed Grantaire's arm before he could tuck it fully away. And what was he tucking away? A flask. "Grantaire!"

An embarrassed flush crept up Grantaire's neck and swept over his cheeks as he jerked his hand from Jehan's surprise-slackened grip. "What? Never seen one before? Need a closer look? Maybe you want one of your own?"

Jehan ignored the biting questions, well-familiar with Grantaire's tendency to attack when embarrassed and refusing to take it personally. Instead, he sat down next to Grantaire and leaned into his shoulder, said simply, "Talk to me."

When Grantaire's answer was to tip the flask back to his lips and take another drink, Jehan frowned. He said, "I know you, Grantaire. You don't do this - not when it's important. This whole thing got harder when you threw Cosette into the mix and you'll need a clear head when she and Eponine get back. You know that, so what's going on?"

Grantaire shrugged and said, "Cosette's better at this than I am. So're you. So's Bossuet and Joly. You've all been to these meetings of his. I've seen the look in your eyes when you get home, Jehan. You're all fired up - all of you. That passion... I don't know why, but I don't have it. I read his posts and I research these issues and I can see why you all get so riled about them, but whatever it is in me that should care... Jehan, I just don't." Though he'd been getting louder and louder with each passing word, his next words were quiet and whispered into the folds of his scarf as though to prevent them being heard, "I think... I think I might be a bad person."

When Jehan said nothing, Grantaire continued, still whispering, still ducking down into his scarf. "I know there are people starving out there and I should want to get on a plane and bring them something to eat or whatever you do, but all I can think is, 'What's the point?' So we bring them food and they eat for a day. Maybe we teach them to grow their own and they eat for a season. What happens when the next drought comes along or the next crop infestation? We go back, again? And again? And again? What's the point? I just can't get around how it all seems so useless."

The answer came from above, in a voice so tightly controlled that it was clear its owner was only just barely keeping himself from screaming his response. "Of course, we go back. If there's drought, we find ways to irrigate. If there's infestation in the crops, we bring pesticides. There's always something more to be done."

The sinking feeling in Jehan's stomach sprouted wings and began banging around inside him like a cluster of drunk butterflies. He looked up to see that Cosette, Eponine and Joly had brought company back with them - the entirety of the SJWs... including Enjolras.

Jehan turned back to Grantaire just in time to see despair at Enjolras' familiar disdain turn his eyes dark and cold... and to see the fury of embarrassment light a fire underneath that. Grantaire pushed against the wall and got himself to his feet, and though unsteady, he didn't fall. He shot back, "And what if those pesticides poison the earth you're growing from so that when the drought is over the ground water is undrinkable? Or maybe you bring in something 'natural' - some bug that kills other bugs? And that bug invades the local ecosystem and wipes out something crucial for its stability. It's all just Band-aids, can't you see that? Nothing really changes."

Enjolras' hand clenched into a fist at his side and Jehan's breath caught until he'd relaxed it, again. Just as the silence was beginning to get truly awkward, Grantaire finally swayed, just barely caught himself on the wall behind him. At that, Enjolras sneered and said, dismissively, "You should stick to your drinking, Grantaire. Leave these discussions to people who are sober enough to have them." And with that parting shot, Enjolras pushed past him to the door, only pausing long enough to let Eponine unlock it before heading inside.

Jehan watched in silent horror as the rest of the group filed past them, only regathering his wits once they'd all gone inside. Grantaire's head was down, unruly curls tumbling over his face to hide his eyes. Jehan held out a hand to him, unsure of what his welcome would be, but sure of one thing - if Grantaire had been unhappy before, he was ten times worse than that, now. He always was after one of these confrontations with Enjolras. So, no one could have been more surprised than Jehan when Grantaire suddenly flung up his head with a bright smile and clapped his hands together. "Well, you heard the man! I have an empty flask and an empty stomach and I'll not tolerate either condition for very long. Time to do a little playing to my strengths." He turned towards the door and flung it open, no longer concerned with Jehan as he yelled into the bar, "Who's buying the next round?"

Courfeyrac groaned as he slumped over on Combeferre's couch and mumbled something into the pillow his face was now buried in. Combeferre raised an eyebrow and yanked the pillow out from underneath him in such a way as to turn his head towards the room and asked, "What was that?"

Courfeyrac let out another heartfelt groan and rubbed his hand over his face before enunciating, "Well, that was an unalloyed disaster of an evening."

Cradling the pillow to his chest, Combeferre slouched down into his preferred seat on the chair across from the couch, toeing off his shoes so he could put his feet up on the coffee table. "I wouldn't say that. Cosette and Eponine seem like wonderful additions to the group. They're both insightful and intelligent and provide a point of view that has been sorely lacking in what has been, until now, very much a boys' club."

"No, no. I didn't mean the rally, Combeferre. I mean _after_ the rally. At the Musain. That was a disaster."

Combeferre at least had the decency to wince in sympathy. "Well. Yes. I'll agree that that could have gone more smoothly."

Courfeyrac heaved himself up into a sitting position against the arm of the couch and pulled his feet up, ignoring the pointed look Combeferre was giving him as his shoes made contact with the cushions. If the man wanted his shoes off, he could damned well get up and take them off himself. Courfeyrac was too tired and not anywhere near drunk enough to deal with tonight and his feet were just too far away.

Understanding Courfeyrac all too well, Combeferre rolled his eyes and reached over to lift Courfeyrac's legs off the couch and shifted over to sit where they had been. Courfeyrac smiled, leaned back and replaced his feet - this time onto Combeferre's lap. Combeferre let out a put-upon sigh, but obligingly unlaced Courfeyrac's shoes and placed them on the floor - all in the name of saving his upholstery, of course.

Just when Combeferre was beginning to think that Courfeyrac had given up on elaborating on his original statement in favor of drifting off to sleep, he finally spoke, "It's clear that Eponine and Grantaire are close. It's equally clear that Cosette and Eponine are closer than close. So, any insult to Grantaire is an insult to them. And Enjolras... Christ, Combeferre, what was wrong with him tonight? I know he has his moods, but he was downright confrontational and that's just not like him - not when there are new recruits around. He's got more control than that. I know he does. So, what the hell got into him?"

Combeferre opened his mouth to answer, but Courfeyrac wasn't done. Pushing himself up against the couch arm, Courfeyrac looked Combeferre straight in the eyes and said, "And don't you dare defend him, Combeferre. Apart from that initial incident outside - probably because of it, actually - Grantaire was going out of his way to stay out of Enjolras' way. He kept to his side of the bar. He stayed out of our conversation - and you know that's abnormal for him because usually he jumps right on in whether we want him to or not. But, Enjolras kept jumping on every word he heard come out of Grantaire's mouth whether it had anything to do with us or not. He didn't give the poor man a second's peace all night!" Courfeyrac made a disgusted face and dropped back down against the cushions. "Christ, Enjolras wasn't even drunk."

Combeferre took his time coming up with an answer, finally said simply, "There was nothing from Rebus all day."

Courfeyrac picked his head up just long enough to level Combeferre with a look that clearly said, "You've got to be fucking joking - _that's_ your answer?" then let it drop back onto the couch.

Combeferre said, "I'm serious. As near as I can tell, that's what made him irritable. Rebus hasn't touched any of his posts that went up after last night. No reblogs. No responses to messages. Nothing."

Raising a hand to rub at his forehead, Courfeyrac said, "Well, _we_ know why that is. She was with us all day!"

"Agreed. But, _Enjolras_ doesn't know that. All he knows is that for the first time in almost four months, Rebus didn't put her own spin on a post he wrote. She didn't reblog it. She didn't 'like' it. She didn't do anything to it. So he wrote another, thought perhaps she'd just missed the first. She ignored that, too. He posted ten things today... and she ignored every single one of them." Combeferre sighed, "It's times like this that I wish we'd told him about Cosette before they met. We could have avoided this entire drama."

Courfeyrac shook his head. "No. I still think we were right to hold that back from him." At a nudge to his foot, Courfeyrac looked up to catch Combeferre's raised eyebrow. He said, "I don't know. Something... something doesn't feel right about all this, Combeferre. The pieces are all in the right place but something just doesn't seem to fit."

When Combeferre nudged him again to continue, Courfeyrac pulled his feet from Combeferre's lap and sat up. He sighed. "You're going to call me a hopeless romantic and ten kinds of a fool, but so be it." He pulled one leg up under him and turned to face Combeferre. "When Enjolras and Rebus interact on tumblr, there's this... I don't know. It's like a blaze of passion between them. Enjolras is incapable of reacting to anything Rebus does part way. It's all or nothing, all the time."

At Combeferre's nod of encouragement, Courfeyrac said, "You can see it in his eyes every time there's a response to one of his messages or some new tag commentary on one of his posts. It's like a fencing match - fast and furious and full of clever thrusts and parries and they range all over the issues, each exchange of blows more elegant and intense than the last. You should watch when they catch each other online sometime. It's... it's beautiful. And when it's over, Enjolras is always tired, but win or lose, he's happy and he's determined and he has a million new plans for what he can do better next time." A wicked smile bloomed across his face as he added, "Fuck, it's like watching them have Internet sex. Enjolras just sits around for however long, basking in the afterglow, before putting all those plans into action."

Courfeyrac waited for that to sink in before dropping the coup de grace. "I don't see _any_ of that passion when he talks to Cosette." As Combeferre's eyebrows climbed up into his hairline, Courfeyrac said, "She's brilliant. She's strong. She's fast as hell on her feet, but..."

Combeferre's eyes widened as he understood, "But she isn't Rebus."

"No." Courfeyrac's eyes were sad as he answered. "No, she isn't. Whoever Rebus is, she must know him personally, though. She gets too many of the details right for that not to be true, but still... it's not her."

"So, we're back to square one - not knowing anything about Rebus except that he or she was smart enough to thoroughly pull the wool over our eyes for almost a month."

Courfeyrac flourished a hand in Combeferre's direction before indulging in a small bow. "Precisely. Well... almost precisely. We know two more things than we knew before, at least." He raised a hand and ticked them off on his fingers, "One. Cosette may not _be_ Rebus, but she knows who is. And two-"

Combeferre reached out and rested his finger on the tip of Courfeyrac's for him. "And two... whoever it is... Enjolras is in love with them and doesn't even realize it." When Courfeyrac nodded, Combeferre echoed his groan from earlier in the evening and dropped his head into his hands, "You were right. This _was_ an unalloyed disaster of an evening." In a completely uncharacteristic moment of vehemence, Combeferre tipped his head back against the couch and said clearly and distinctly, "Well... **Fuck**."

Courfeyrac slumped over next to him and closed his eyes, "Well put, my friend. Couldn't have said it better myself."


	5. Chapter 5

**_May 31, 2013:_** Well, everyone... Enjolras finally started talking to me and decided he was ready to be a POV character. *eg* I hope you're ready! ^_~ And thank you, again, to everyone reading and leaving comments! You brighten my life. ^_^

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**_Follow You, Follow Me - Chapter 5_**  
by _Renee-chan_

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"It's been _seven days_. What the hell is he doing?"

Courfeyrac winced at the sound of Enjolras' laptop slamming shut. Across the table, Combeferre winced right along with him and said, "If he keeps that up, he's going to break it."

Before Courfeyrac could respond, Enjolras stormed in from the other room, aggravation rolling off of him in near-palpable waves. He walked past the two sitting at the kitchen table and opened the refrigerator. After staring at the shelves for a minute or two, he closed the door with an irritated huff and turned to repeat the process with the cabinets... and the pantry. When he got to the silverware drawer, that was when Combeferre finally intervened with a polite, "Is there something we can help you find, Enjolras?"

Enjolras slammed the silverware drawer shut and stood beside it for a moment, posture tense, one fist clenched at his side, clearly warring with himself over whether or not to deliver a rude response. Eventually the fist relaxed and he rolled his head back against his shoulders, raising one hand to massage the back of his neck in a desperate attempt to convince those muscles to relax, as well. When he turned back to face his friends he said simply, "No, there's... there's nothing. I just..." He trailed off. His next words emerged quietly, almost plaintively. "I just don't understand."

Courfeyrac pulled out the chair beside him and patted the seat. Enjolras sank down into it, crossing his arms on the table, dropping his head onto them, and looking utterly dejected. Combeferre reached out to take one of his hands at the same time as Courfeyrac reached out to start rubbing soothing circles around his lower back. Their gazes met over Enjolras' head and Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow, asking a silent question... what to do.

Ever since that night at the Musain, Rebus had ceased all contact with Enjolras and the SJWs. He wasn't even answering Courfeyrac's messages. Courfeyrac had resorted to trying to get Cosette alone to tell her that he knew who she was - or more importantly, who she _wasn't_ - and ask her to intervene, but Eponine blocked him every time, refusing to let him get anywhere near Cosette without her there, as well. At this point, Courfeyrac almost didn't care who Rebus really was. He just wanted to get him talking to Enjolras, again, because _this_... Jesus fucking Christ, it was just cruel.

Eventually, Combeferre cleared his throat. Enjolras lifted his head at the sound, eyes so hopeful it about broke Courfeyrac's heart. Combeferre tightened his grip on Enjolras' hand and said, "Why don't you tell us what's really bothering you?" As the look on Enjolras' face shifted from hopeful to confused, Combeferre said, "Are you just annoyed because he's ignoring you?"

When Enjolras frowned and opened his mouth to answer, Courfeyrac jumped in with, "Enjolras. Think about it before you speak." When Enjolras turned to look at him, Courfeyrac slid his hand up Enjolras' back to squeeze his shoulder, "I mean it. You have a powerful brain inside that skull of yours. I know. I've seen you use it. The problem is that lately, you haven't been - using it, I mean. One of your greatest strengths is your ability to analyze a problem, gather your resources and apply them to a solution. Your other greatest strength is your passion. The problem, at least what I think is the problem, is that you're allowing one to trip up the other. You need to stop _re_acting and start _acting_." He leaned over to touch his forehead to Enjolras' and smiled. "So, don't just answer. Think about it first, then answer. OK?"

And Enjolras did. He got up from the table and returned to the living room, where they could soon hear him beginning to pace and mutter to himself - a good sign. If he was pacing and muttering, he was finally thinking, again. He would figure it out. Courfeyrac leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face, already exhausted before they'd even begun to tackle the real problem. Combeferre caught the action and said softly, "And you? Are you all right?"

Courfeyrac shrugged, let a bitter laugh slip past his guard. "No. I'm not. I've dreaded this very circumstance for years. And this… it's the worst of all possible scenarios." At Combeferre's confused look, Courfeyrac explained, "It would have been hard enough getting him through his first crush if it had been on a teacher when he was twelve. It would have been harder, but still manageable, on a classmate when he was sixteen. Now that he's twenty-three, it was already going to be nigh impossible... with a real fucking person. This? How can you work through how you feel about someone when you don't even know who they are? This was already a disaster waiting to happen and now that it's falling apart, I don't even know where to start helping him through it."

"You've thought about this a lot, then." Combeferre raised an eyebrow, though his tone had made the words sound more like a statement than a question.

Courfeyrac shrugged. "I've known him longer than you, Combeferre. He's always had a tendency to jump in with both feet, without bothering to look ahead, especially when he saw an injustice being done. He never seemed to care what happened to himself as long as he was able to help someone else. It meant he got his feelings trampled on a lot. It meant he got hurt a lot." He sighed. "I got sick and tired of watching it happen, so I started trying to protect him from it. And it worked. In fact... I'm starting to think it worked a little too well. I shielded him from so much of life when we were growing up that he's got no experience to draw from to deal with things like this."

Eyebrows shooting up into his hairline, Combeferre opened his mouth to respond... and never got a chance. Enjolras had returned. He walked up to the table and braced himself on his hands to lean over the end. He was silent for another moment before saying, "I am annoyed. Yes. That's part of it. I'd come to count on him boosting our signal and now that he isn't, well... it's showing, already. So soon before some of our biggest events of the season, that's inconvenient at best. All this time... all this time, I thought I could trust him. I thought he believed. I thought..." His voice dropped, "I thought he _wanted_ to help." When Enjolras fell silent, Courfeyrac motioned him to continue. He said, "But, more than that... I miss talking to him."

Letting out a growl of frustration, Enjolras straightened, began pacing the confines of the small kitchen, hands shoved deep into his blonde curls and tugging. "How can I miss speaking with someone I've never actually spoken to? And why would he cut off all contact without even... I don't know - without even a note? An away message? Just something to let me know..."

Courfeyrac smiled softly, caught at Enjolras shirt, tugging him close as he paced by, and finished the sentence for him, "...something to let you know he's all right?"

Enjolras' eyes widened, lips parting on a surprised puff of breath as he slowly nodded... once, twice. He breathed out, "Yes. Exactly." He turned his gaze down to meet Courfeyrac's, "I... What if something happened to him?"

Sensing that tremendous mind about to go down a path that would leave him of no use to anyone, Combeferre jumped in with, "Or what if it's the end of the semester and we have finals fast approaching? What if he's studying and has simply cut the excess frivolity of harassing you on tumblr from his schedule for the time being?"

Enjolras turned to look at Combeferre, slowly nodded, "If he's a student, then I suppose that's possible." He frowned, "Still. If that was the case, then he certainly should have left a note."

Combeferre hid his smile when he caught Courfeyrac rolling his eyes from behind Enjolras' hip. Instead he simply said, "Yes, Enjolras. He should have. And when he does contact you, again, I'm sure you'll tell him so." Arching an eyebrow at Enjolras, Combeferre added, "And if you're done with the melodramatics for the night, can we please turn our attention back to the planning for our next meeting? Rebus isn't the only one with final exams to study for."

Grantaire jerked awake as his phone let out a soft 'ping.' He cursed under his breath as he scrambled to locate it in the tangle of blankets and pillows he'd crawled into sometime around three o'clock this morning. The blare of light from the screen when he finally found it prompted him to emit a low moan and he immediately squeezed his eyes shut.

An exhausted voice piped up from the other side of the bed, just a hint of a whine penetrating the sleep haze in it as Jehan mumbled, "What the hell, R? It's four in the morning!"

Grantaire winced his way out of bed, "I know, I know. Sorry. I forgot to turn the volume off."

Jehan picked his head up off the pillow to blink owlishly at Grantaire in the dim light provided by his phone screen. When he caught the guilty look on Grantaire's face, Jehan reached out a hand to touch his arm, "Tell me that wasn't your tumblr alert." When Grantaire just ducked his head further, letting his wayward curls fall forward to hide his eyes, Jehan sighed and sat up, "I thought we agreed - no tumblr this week."

Grantaire hunched his shoulders against the look of disappointment he already knew would be on Jehan's face. "I know. I know. I just..."

"You miss him." Jehan reached up, got a firmer grip on Grantaire's arm and tugged him back down onto the bed, then tugged him closer still into the circle of his arms. As Grantaire resettled himself with his head on Jehan's chest, Jehan said, "You didn't miss him three days ago when you got in a shouting match with each other at the Musain which ended in you nearly getting in a fist fight with Bahorel."

Grantaire turned his face into the crook of Jehan's neck to grumble his answer. When Jehan poked him and said he hadn't understood that last, Grantaire turned his face back up and said, distinctly, "Three days ago, he wasn't sending me messages like this." He then held up the phone for Jehan to see Enjolras' latest message to Rebus.

~Please, just answer this to let me know you're all right. I promise I'll stop bothering you if you do.~

Jehan read the message, read it again, then made an irritated noise in the back of his throat that rapidly began to sound like a kettle boiling over. He grabbed the phone out of Grantaire's hand and sat up so quickly that he dislodged Grantaire from his position on his chest and nearly thwacked him in the head with his elbow on the way up. Before Grantaire even had a chance to realize what Jehan was doing, he'd finished doing it, turned off Grantaire's phone and tossed it back to him.

"What... what did you just do?" Grantaire's eyes were huge and horrified as he scrambled to turn the phone back on.

Jehan just sat there in the glow of the screen, looking vaguely sinister as he crossed his arms over his chest and said quietly, "What I had to do."

Grantaire finally got tumblr back up and began vehemently cursing when he remembered that tumblr didn't save sent messages.

Jehan quietly added, "R, this is no good. R... Damn it, _listen to me._" He grabbed Grantaire by the shoulders and gave him one firm shake. Once he had Grantaire's attention, Jehan said, "We agreed this wasn't good for you." When Grantaire opened his mouth to protest, Jehan shook his head. "We agreed, Grantaire. You said it yourself - this thing between Enjolras and Rebus isn't real. The person he sent that message to is a figment of your imagination that you created to cater to his every whim. That's not real and it's not healthy. You have to stop using it as a quick and easy fix to be with him. If you want to be close to him, you have to find a way to do it as yourself, not as this Galatea you've breathed life into to satisfy his Pygmalion-esque urges."

Every fiber of Grantaire's body slumped at those words and he grew heavy in Jehan's hold. As Jehan let his friend's body slump against him, Grantaire spoke, quiet and broken. "I can't. I've _tried_. He made up his mind about me months ago - that he has no use for me. And I know him well enough to know that he doesn't change his mind easily once it's made up."

Jehan pulled Grantaire into a tight hug, gently started rocking him and murmuring reassurances in his ear. As Grantaire calmed, Jehan slipped a finger under his chin to tilt his face up and place a soft, chaste kiss on his lips - and if those lips tasted mildly of salt, Jehan wasn't one to call attention to it. He said, "Just because a thing is improbable doesn't mean that it is impossible. You're smart. You'll find a way to convince him you're worth the effort - because you are."

Grantaire had no response for that, too exhausted by the long night spent drinking and now emotionally drained from this discussion on top of it. Jehan resettled them both among the nest of blankets on Grantaire's bed and pulled Grantaire back into the circle of his arms, cradling him close. As Grantaire drifted off to sleep, Jehan pressed another soft kiss into the curls atop his head. He had a sinking feeling about this... that Grantaire was right. After all, how was Grantaire ever going to convince Enjolras that he was worth his while... when he didn't really believe it himself?

Enjolras sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone and quietly cursing the impulse that had driven him awake to send that ridiculous message. It was four in the morning. What sane person would be awake and responding to tumblr messages at four in the morning?

Still, he couldn't help the small swell of hope in his chest, that _this_ would be the message that Rebus finally answered. He'd been messaging Rebus all week, sending asks, sending fanmails, reblogging old posts with new witty arguments, anything he could think of to draw the other out of their silence. Nothing had worked. He was just... gone.

The truly pathetic thing was that Enjolras hadn't realized how much he'd come to rely on conversation with Rebus to keep him on track, to keep him at his best. Enjolras hadn't often encountered other people willing to debate policy and issues with him with the tenacity and skill that Rebus had shown. Combeferre could, and often did, but since Combeferre had shifted the bulk of his mental energy into his medical school classes, Enjolras had found that they now agreed on nearly everything. And while that was certainly pleasant, it was more difficult to find the holes in his arguments if Combeferre couldn't be goaded into truly arguing with him. And Courfeyrac... Enjolras snorted. Courfeyrac was useless in an argument. He was clever, certainly, and passionate enough for ten men... but he didn't debate. He employed emotional gambits to achieve the results he desired. And while that was certainly effective - sometimes even more effective than Enjolras' most well-designed rhetoric and that was a secret Enjolras was taking with him to the grave - it didn't help Enjolras find the flaws in his arguments, either.

Rebus... Rebus was an altogether different matter. He was quick, he was bright, he was knowledgeable about _everything_... and he was a gifted orator. Or, well... he was a gifted whatever-the-tumblr-equivalent-to-an-orator-was. And he had no attachment to agreeing with everything Enjolras said. In fact, he seemed positively gleeful about attacking the foundations of whichever argument Enjolras made that struck his fancy to tear apart. It was maddening... but it was the most helpful aggravation Enjolras had ever had, and he thrived on it. He welcomed it. He began to look forward to it, sometimes even tossed out an argument he knew was unsound just to tempt Rebus into jumping on it and tearing it to shreds... because he enjoyed watching the other man's mind work that much.

Enjolras groaned, dropped his head to rest against the screen of his phone. He could kill Courfeyrac, right now, truly he could. The man had an infuriating way of calling Enjolras' attention to feelings he'd been unaware of harboring and would have been just as happy not to ever have to acknowledge. He had a knack for it - yanking the rug out from under Enjolras' mental feet. And the timing of this realization... Christ, he could have done without it.

But, if there was one thing Enjolras was not, it was a man who engaged in self-denial. It was something he'd always prided himself on - knowing his own mind. And when you denied your feelings, you denied part of who you were, and preserving that denial wasted energy that could be put to better use elsewhere. Besides, if you weren't intimately acquainted with every inch of the arsenal at your disposal, you could trip over a pile of javelins as you were reaching for the muskets. Enjolras didn't appreciate loose javelins rolling around to trip him up.

…and Rebus had turned out to be one _hell_ of a loose javelin. So, it really was a good thing that Courfeyrac had called Enjolras' attention to him before he impaled himself, but that didn't mean he had to like it, much less tell Courfeyrac that he did. Besides, Courfeyrac was a hopeless romantic. He'd been on the sidelines for most of Enjolras' life, just waiting for his chance to cheer on his first romantic entanglement. Enjolras had been almost sorry to disappoint him for so long, but who had time for romance when there was so much to be done? Who could be so selfish as to put his own carnal needs about the needs of billions of other people? Who could be so arrogant as to think his right to fornicate more important than the right of others to eat or to live without oppression and fear of death? Not Enjolras, that was for certain.

So, it was highly unfortunate that this had happened as it had and with Enjolras entirely unaware of its happening until it was a fully formed presence in his mind... but since it had, Enjolras knew better than to fight it. He'd already proved to his own satisfaction that he was better at what he did with Rebus' input. He'd already proved to his own satisfaction that he was more fulfilled... was happier... with Rebus in his life. Wouldn't it be just his luck if Rebus didn't feel that same connection?

So deep in his introspection was he that when Enjolras' phone buzzed against his forehead, he let out a rather undignified yipe and nearly dropped it. Heart racing in anticipation, he opened the message response and read it through. When he reached the end, his heart dropped into his stomach, leaving him feeling queasy... and more uncertain of anything than he'd been since he was five.

~Roses are red.  
Violets are blue.  
Rebus is gone, now.  
You know what to do.  
Beep!~


	6. Chapter 6

**_June 7, 2013:_** I do apologize for making you wait and I appreciate your patience. On the upside… it's a nice long chapter. ^_^ In this chapter, everyone gets a little drunk and for many of the same reasons, Marius finally comes into play… and certain decisions are made. Enjoy!

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**_Follow You, Follow Me - Chapter 6_**  
by _Renee-chan_

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Grantaire lifted his glass to Jehan. Jehan lifted his, as well, but pulled it back as Grantaire reached out to clink them together. Eyes narrowing, he asked, "Before I commit, to what exactly are we toasting?"

A soft smile on his face, Grantaire extended his arm further and clinked his glass against Jehan's. Once he had taken a sip, he said, "To good friends who know better than you do what you need."

Jehan's smile in return was radiant and he eagerly took a drink to that toast. Placing the glass carefully down next to him, he reached out and took Grantaire's hand, "And to good friends who watch your back, even when you don't need it."

The pair smiled, lips stretching into perfectly matching grins. They'd been friends a long time, Grantaire and Jean Prouvaire, and the lines between them had grown vague over the years. They looked out for each other. They took care of each other - even when that care was the last thing one of them wanted or needed. Both were used to being underestimated, undervalued, pushed aside for factors they couldn't control. They'd hurt each other more than once in the beginning, stepping on emotional scars neither had expected to find, nor understood when they did, but they learned. They learned well.

Jehan was built small, like one of the delicate flowers he loved so much. He was not overly tall and had a way of dressing that was uniquely his own and never quite after the fashion of the day. He was a speaker of language, both conversational and poetic. And he was one of the fiercest men Grantaire knew. He was cunning, he was brave, and if you dared cause harm to anyone he claimed as his... then by word or by force, he would end you.

That was how they had met.

Grantaire had found him facing down a group of men intent on harassing a young woman selling flowers on the street. They were plucking buds from her cart, taunting her as they ripped off the petals and scattered the stems. Uncomfortable with the odds, but unwilling to engage unless necessary, Grantaire had edged closer but remained far enough back not to interfere. He'd watched as the young man tried to reason with the small mob, then resorted to heavier threats. The mob of boys had not been amused and had finally attacked when the young man had mentioned calling the police. Grantaire had winced, certainly unwilling to get involved now that the encounter had turned violent, but more than willing to carry out that poor doomed soul's threat to call for help.

And it was a good thing, too. Two people ended up needing medical care that day from injuries inflicted by the group of boys. Neither of them was Jean Prouvaire. Grantaire had been drawn in by the fierce light in the other's eyes as he fought, the way he shifted from gentle to furious in the space of a heartbeat... all over some flowers. Grantaire had approached, introduced himself, offered to help clean up.

Halfway through the clean up, Jehan had caught Grantaire watching him as though trying to figure out exactly to what he had been witness. Jehan blushed, ducked his eyes and, before the question could even be asked, mumbled, "Aikido. I, uh... I watched quite a lot of anime as a child and developed a fascination with the culture and..." He shrugged. "It seemed like a useful skill to have?"

And that was Jean Prouvaire in a nutshell. He had a penchant for picking up unusual or archaic skills just because they were of interest and twisting them into the rhythm of a personality that already marched to the beat of a very different drummer, and though he was deceptively mild-mannered, he was fierce in his protection of his friends. It was fair to say that it was love at first sight between them. They'd tried once, in fact. Jehan still maintained that they could have made it work, but Grantaire... he was too afraid of what the occasional conjoining of their different brands of melancholy could bring them to. For though Jehan was most often a happy individual, like any poet drawn to the great tragedies, he dabbled in a melancholy of his own. Combining that with Grantaire's propensity for drowning his inadequacies in alcohol... those were dark times for them both and Grantaire wouldn't risk Jehan like that. And so they were friends. They were very good friends. They were, perhaps, even a touch codependent, but it worked and this week had been yet another example of why.

Jehan had taken it to mind that Grantaire needed an intervention. Though, Grantaire had to admit, he'd never heard of someone intervening with another to _return_ them to their drinking habits, but again... Jehan still marched to the beat of his own drummer. No, this intervention was not to separate Grantaire from his love of the bottle. It was to separate him from an equally unhealthy love - one Enjolras.

Grantaire sighed, tipped back the rest of his drink and motioned Musichetta to refill his glass. The week had been harder than anticipated and Jehan had moved in for a time to offer much-needed support and distraction. In the end, Grantaire had grudgingly admitted that Jehan was right. Continuing on a near love affair with Enjolras as Rebus when the man took every opportunity available to distain him as Grantaire wasn't good for him, reaffirmed his lack of self-worth at every harsh word. Jehan was right about that... but it didn't change how desperately Grantaire missed talking to the man.

There was only one thing for it, then. Turning back to Jehan, Grantaire said, "How do you fancy me as a pre-law major?"

Cosette smiled as the man beside her cursed at the gridlock in front of them and then reached out to flip a switch inside the car. A moment later, the interior of the vehicle was awash in red and blue light and cars were scrambling to let them pass. "I don't know why you insisted on coming this way. Papa mentioned this morning that there was a game, tonight."

The man in the driver's seat frowned, flipped on the siren for just long enough to encourage the pickup in front of them to pay attention and move, then deftly began weaving through the traffic to get them off the main road. He mumbled something under his breath that Cosette didn't catch, but based on the light pink color that was all that was visible of his blush through the darkness of his skin, she could guess and so kindly didn't call him on it.

Not one thing that night had gone exactly as it ought, so really, this was just one more SNAFU to add to the pile. It had started when Cosette, Eponine and Gavroche had been at their weekly dinner with Cosette's parents and Eponine had gotten a call from the Musain. The person who usually covered for her on their weekly family dinner nights had found herself ill and needed to go home. After profuse apologies (and a significant amount of cursing for the situation), Eponine had left to go cover the rest of the shift.

It wasn't more than an hour later that she'd called Cosette to come join her, claiming it was an emergency, but refusing to explain any further over the phone. Before Cosette had even had a chance to figure out what to do, her Papa was ushering Gavroche into the den and bribing him with unsavory stories of his younger, less polite company-friendly life. Gavroche didn't question the abrupt change in plans, or being handled as though he were a child who needed looking after. He loved hearing about his 'grandpapa's' exploits and it was only when his 'grandfather' wasn't around that he got to hear those stories, so he wasn't going to do anything that might ruin his chances at hearing them. And while her papa took Gavroche neatly in hand, Cosette's father did the same for her, ushering her into her coat and out the door to drive her to the Musain.

It was almost frightening, sometimes, how well her parents understood each other. Not a word had been spoken between the two men before that plan had been enacted and they had carried it out with nary a fumble or a misstep. Cosette could only hope that someday she and Eponine would know each other half so well. Then again, based on looks that Gavroche threw their way, occasionally... perhaps they already did.

And that was why Cosette's father had acted as he had. The look on her own face had been all he needed to see to know that Eponine needed her - and in his own way, he loved Eponine as fiercely as he did Cosette. If Eponine needed her, he would ensure that Eponine had her.

Still... the lights and sirens were a bit much. And Eponine was sure to say so when they arrived... as soon as she finished laughing herself sick.

When they arrived at the Musain, Cosette's father moved to unbuckle his seatbelt and she immediately placed a hand over his, "Father. It's all right. Thank you for the ride, but I can handle this."

A frown etched deep lines into her father's face at those words. As always, those permanent worry lines made Cosette want to reach out and hold him. It had always seemed to her as though her father's face was more at home when sad than happy. She'd been frightened of him, at first, when he and Papa had come to take her from her foster home with the Thenardiers, but she'd come to understand in time that it was worry for her and worry for Papa... worry for the entire world, really, that made him so somber. The longer they were together, though, they three, the more he smiled, the more he laughed. But, even so, his face never quite seemed to lose the habit of those early years and as always, Cosette grieved to see that worry on his face. She leaned across the space between them and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, "Really, Father. We'll be all right. I suspect that this emergency has more to do with preventing Eponine from harming one of her customers than it does with preventing one of them from harming her. You know how well she takes care of herself."

Though that reminder of the difficulty of Eponine's life only etched those frown lines deeper, Cosette's father agreed to let her go in on her own, but would accept no argument against him waiting outside until he was certain his help would not be needed. Considering that as much of a victory as she was going to get, Cosette kissed him on the cheek once more and headed inside, already idly wondering if it was Courfeyrac or Grantaire she was going to have to rescue from Eponine's wrath, tonight.

...it was neither.

When Eponine looked up and saw Cosette's form silhouetted in the doorway, her eyes rolled briefly heavenward and Cosette saw her mouth distinctly form the words, "Oh, thank _G-d_," before she came around the bar to meet Cosette at the door. She leaned out just long enough to give Cosette's father a thumbs up and a wave to indicate he wasn't needed, then hurried Cosette inside. She was so harried, she didn't even comment on the still flashing lights.

Cosette scanned the bar again, thinking that perhaps she'd just missed them on her initial pass, but still didn't see either Courfeyrac or Grantaire. She raised an eyebrow, "All right. I'll bite. I don't see either of your usual troublemakers here. What's the emergency?"

Eponine rolled her eyes and jerked her thumb at the man sitting towards the left side of the bar, resolutely shredding a small pile of cocktail napkins. "Who knew he'd be such a melancholy drunk when alone? I realize it's been a week since 'Rebus' established radio silence and that's clearly thrown him off his game, but... Christ, Cosette, he's only had two and he's already played King of Wishful Thinking and It Must Have Been Love on the jukebox... twice. I'm brewing a pot of coffee for him, but at this point, I doubt it will help." She snorted, "Just... I've called Courfeyrac, but he can't pick him up until he gets out of class at 10 and Combeferre is on clinic duty tonight. Can you just... I don't know. Keep an eye on him for me until Courfeyrac gets here or sends someone to get him?"

Leaning over to brush a soft kiss against Eponine's lips, Cosette smiled. "Of course, I will. I'll even do my best to keep him away from the rest of the Pretty Woman soundtrack."

"You're the best." Eponine offered Cosette one more harassed smile before heading back to the bar to fill the next order of drinks.

Cosette made her way over to the side of the bar, perched gingerly on a stool beside Eponine's troublemaker of the night and said, softly, "Hey. You all right?"

Enjolras paused in his shredding for a moment and turned just enough to see who it was who had addressed him. His eyes narrowed, then widened, then narrowed again, and Cosette winced when she realized that the poor man was trying to get her face to come into focus. Eventually he said, "Cosette... isn't it?"

The charade had never gone as far as telling Enjolras that she was Rebus and it would be unforgivably cruel - not to mention poor timing - to attempt it, now, with Grantaire making himself scarce on tumblr. So, for now, she would remain only Cosette. Cosette smiled, nodding once. Enjolras smiled at her acknowledgement in return, then went back to shredding napkins. Cosette deftly reached out and pulled the few remaining unmolested napkins back out of his reach to prevent him making an even larger mess. He didn't even notice.

They sat in silence for another ten minutes, with only the ripping sound of a napkin occasionally intruding, until Enjolras picked up his glass to take a drink only to find it empty. He waved Eponine over and asked for another. She looked back and forth between he and Cosette for just a moment before taking the glass. When she returned, however, there was a cup of coffee in her hand, not a glass of alcohol. Enjolras frowned, "That's not what I ordered."

Eponine shrugged as she placed it on the bar. "Well, it's all you're going to get, so you can thank me and drink it or you can curse me and not drink it. Honestly, I couldn't care less either way, but if you spill it, you clean it up and if you break the mug, you buy me a new one." When Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, Eponine lifted a finger, shook it in his face, "Those are the rules, Enjolras. Even Grantaire respects me when I cut him off. If he can do it, so can you." Before he had a chance to come up with any more answer than a brief sneer, Eponine had returned to the other end of the bar.

Enjolras stared at the cup of coffee for a moment, then finally sighed and pulled it closer. He took a small sip, shuddered at the bitterness, then gingerly put it down and pushed it back away. Cosette smiled in sympathy. "She likes it strong. She then assumes that anyone she's serving it to in the bar will _need_ it strong... and makes it stronger." She quirked an eyebrow. "And judging by how you look, Enjolras, she's not wrong this time. You look terrible."

Sighing heavily, Enjolras let his head drop down onto his folded arms. "I _feel_ terrible, so I suppose that's par for the course."

Cosette leaned over, rested her elbows on the bar. "I don't suppose you want to talk about whatever's obviously bothering you?" When Enjolras shook his head, Cosette sighed. "No. I suppose not."

Cosette watched Enjolras for another few minutes, giving over to sympathy by the contradiction in terms that made up the SJWs' leader. Sitting there with his head on his arms, looking so tired... so lonely... Enjolras looked so very young. It was deceptive, she knew, and all that delicacy would fall away in a heartbeat if something got him fired up, but in that moment, all she wanted to do was pull him into her arms and cradle him close, the way she would do for Gavroche just a few short years ago. Enjolras would never allow it, of course... but she wanted to, nonetheless. Instead, she decided to do as she had seen his friends do before, the few times he'd overindulged. She lifted her hand, stroked it gently through his soft, golden curls. He sighed, leaned into the touch just a bit.

They sat there like that, quietly, with Cosette giving Enjolras what small comfort he would let her give, until another voice spoke up from behind them, "Ah... I'm so sorry to bother you, miss, but... I believe you're in possession of something that I'm supposed to deliver safely home."

Cosette turned to face the one who had spoken and as she did... dear Lord. The poor boy paled, clutched his keys tightly to his chest and his eyes widened fit to pop right out of his head. He was so flustered, he seemed incapable of stringing any more words together than those he'd already done and he gestured helplessly at Enjolras. Cosette smiled as easy-going a smile as she could manage. It wasn't the first time she'd seen someone struck dumb by her beauty. Her dark skin, blonde hair and blue eyes were exotic enough that she made a striking figure. But, that wasn't news. As far as Cosette was concerned, her beauty was a bankable commodity which garnered her advantages in life which she might not win otherwise. She wasn't above trading on it, she just preferred not to do so in her personal relationships. That was one of the many reasons why she adored Eponine so. Eponine appreciated Cosette's beauty, certainly, but it wasn't the reason Eponine loved her. They'd met when they were girls and Cosette had yet to grow into her exotic looks, had even been somewhat awkward, and Eponine had loved her fiercely even then - for who she was, not what she looked like.

To give the boy credit, though, he recovered himself quickly and held out his hand. Cosette internally sighed at the thought that he might be about to kiss hers... and found herself pleasantly surprised when he gave it a firm shake, instead. He said, "Forgive me. You must get tired of men staring at you all the time. I just..." He blushed, "I wasn't prepared. Courfeyrac - my roommate - he called during his class break and asked me to come get Enjolras for him and..." He trailed off, took a moment to look over at Enjolras, who had resumed his earlier shredding activities. He sighed, "...I think I was expecting someone else to be with him." His blush deepened as he rushed on, as though to himself. "...which makes no sense, whatsoever, Marius, my G-d, get it together." He lifted a hand to smack himself in the forehead and said, "Idiot. If one of the others had been here, Courfeyrac never would have asked me to come."

Cosette took in this babble with a slowly growing smile. By the time the boy trailed off into self-deprecating mumbles, Lord help her, she was finding him almost charming. She reached out a hand to cover his now nervously twisting ones, "Marius." He stopped immediately, gave her his full attention. She smiled, "My name is Cosette. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Even more so since I know that this problem..." She stabbed a finger in Enjolras' direction, "...is about to become _your_ problem instead of mine."

The smile Marius gave her then... it was dazzling. He swept her a bow with an almost archaic flourish and said, "I would be happy to relieve you of any problem you would have me relieve you of."

Before Cosette could even open her mouth to laugh at Marius' dramatics, Enjolras, beginning to sober up at last, lifted his head from his arms and scowled at them both. "Well this particular 'problem' has a name and doesn't appreciate being spoken about as if he isn't sitting right here. And Marius, quit making such a fool of yourself. This woman with whom you are so shamelessly flirting is Eponine's girlfriend. You're wasting your breath."

Cosette turned back towards Marius, a smile of apology ready on her lips... only to find it wasn't needed. Marius was wearing a soft smile of his own and was reaching out to pat Enjolras on the shoulder. Even as Enjolras shrugged him off with an irritated grumble, Marius said, "I don't believe that speaking to Cosette could, in any circumstance, be considered a waste of breath, Enjolras. It's only the drink that makes you say so... or so I hope. For if not, then I fear there is no hope for you, at all."

Marius turned back to Cosette and, though Cosette wouldn't have thought it possible, his smile widened further still. "I never dared hope for the pleasure of meeting Eponine's lady-love. Your beloved helped me when I was on my own and had no one else to whom to turn." He gestured around them and said, "She gave me a job even when I had no useful skills of which to speak. She introduced me to Courfeyrac and thus found me a place to live. She helped me build a life for myself and, for that, I can never truly repay her. And she always spoke so very highly of you that I hardly dared dream I would one day have the pleasure of meeting you, in person."

Cosette blinked at Marius, stunned at his sudden eloquence when just a moment before he had been about as verbal as a babbling brook. Perhaps... perhaps it was because she was no longer a potential object of romance. Even so... his casual words were far more extravagant than even Jehan's, and Jehan was a poet. No one spoke like that in casual conversation, anymore. She turned towards Eponine, an eyebrow raised. Eponine merely laughed. "Yes, Cosette. He's always like that. Unless he's tongue-tied over a girl. Something to do with being raised by an old codger and having only classic books for friends."

Though Eponine's smile then was genuine and fond, Cosette couldn't have missed the flash of hurt there even if she'd been blind. Ah... that was it. After she and Cosette had found each other, but not yet found each other romantically, Eponine had spoken often of a boy. He had been born to money and had tossed it all off over a disagreement with his grandfather's politics. Eponine had been enamored of him, possibly even loved him a little... but had never had the courage to tell him so. She had encouraged him to treat her as only a friend and a boss - a fact for which Cosette found herself quite grateful, as that had given her _her_ chance to tell Eponine how she felt... but it was clear to see that it was a decision that pained her love, still.

So, Cosette helped Marius get Enjolras out to the car, still thinking hard about what she could do to heal that hurt. It proved to be a welcome distraction. They both ignored Enjolras' protestations that he could make it to the car on his own, even valiantly held in the laughter when they let go of him and he nearly fell. When they finally made it to the car, Marius blushed a little over the sorry state of his vehicle, but proudly told her that he had paid for it himself - with money he had earned on his own. It was a point of pride, Cosette could tell, so she treated it as such, even as she winced at the sound of the rusty hinges squealing as she pulled open the front passenger door.

Once Enjolras had been settled in the passenger seat, Marius took his leave of her. Yes. He took his leave. Cosette nearly laughed again at the stiff formality of it, but she couldn't deny that it was, in many ways, endearing. She couldn't shake the idea that Marius and her Papa would get along famously. He had that same old world charm and manner - she'd seen her father fall prey to it more than once. When they drove off, Cosette went back inside and draped herself over the bar near Eponine.

Eponine smiled at her, but there was worry there behind her eyes. Cosette hitched herself up on the bar, leaned over and planted a soft kiss to her favorite spot just below and behind Eponine's right ear. Eponine shivered. Their eyes met, dark brown and vibrant blue, and the worry slowly faded from Eponine's eyes. Cosette wanted nothing more than to wipe that worry from Eponine's eyes forever, but how to handle this? It was clear that Eponine still harbored a bit of a crush on Marius. It was equally clear that Marius had a bit of a crush on Cosette. It was Eponine's worst nightmare, fighting to come to pass. But, Cosette was not one to give up what she wanted so easily - and what she wanted most of all was to see Eponine happy. So, if Eponine wanted something... Cosette would get it for her. It was that simple. And in this particular case, not only was it simple, but it had the potential to be rather enjoyable. All Eponine had seen was Marius' appreciation of Cosette's beauty. Cosette, however, had seen more. There had been a flush of love and admiration in Marius' eyes when he spoke of all Eponine had done for him. There was potential there... so much potential. And the fact that Cosette found him rather awkwardly adorable, as well, certainly didn't hurt. Still, she would wait, would hold off on sharing this brewing thought with Eponine until she had a better feel for the situation, until she was sure. In the meantime... Cosette leaned back over the bar to whisper into Eponine's ear, "I don't believe it would go amiss if we left Gavroche with my fathers for the night..."

Eponine's breath caught and her eyes fluttered shut. When she opened them again, the look within their depths was so fierce and full of need that Cosette's own breath caught.

"OK, everybody! Last fucking call! Get your butts up to the bar and get 'em before I change my mind. We're closing early tonight!"

Jehan eyed Grantaire over the rim of his glass of wine, then when he determined that his friend was serious, sighed heavily and put the glass back down. Grantaire watched as Jehan deliberately flexed his fingers to their fullest extent - a motion that Grantaire recognized as Jehan deliberately attempting not to make fists... and a stretch he was fond of engaging in before practicing his martial arts on someone - and let out a sigh of his own as he prepared for the lecture he was now certain was coming after his last question.

Jehan clasped his hands in front of him - another deliberate move Grantaire was familiar with and thus why he edged himself a little further away from Jehan so as to be out of grabbing distance - and said, very precisely, "And why would you want to do that?"

A helpless shrug was the only response Grantaire could give. Jehan knew damned well why. He wanted... he _needed_ another reason to be close to Enjolras, preferably in a setting that would leave the fearless and fearsome leader of the SJWs in a kinder frame of mind. And Grantaire knew full well which classes Enjolras was TA-ing in the coming semester. He'd told Rebus weeks ago. It would be easy enough to slip into one of them.

Jehan shook his head, "R... you know I only say this because I love you... you're out of your mind." When Grantaire looked up, eyes revealing a bone-deep bruise of hurt, Jehan reached out and took one of his hands in his. "Do you have any interest whatsoever in law?"

Grantaire winced, ducked his gaze, eventually shook his head. "No." The word was a pathetic whisper of sound, barely enough conviction given to it to call it a proper word instead of an exhalation of sound.

And that was the problem. Grantaire didn't have conviction in anything - not in anything that mattered, anyway. He had great conviction for his drink. He had great conviction in knowing the best restaurants, the best gaming halls, the best of whatever it was that would ease the passing time of his existence, no matter what little use that existence was. Yes, he had great conviction in seeing to his comforts... but he had none left whatsoever for his classes, for his future. Deep down inside, Grantaire still doubted whether or not he even deserved one.

Jehan lightly squeezed Grantaire's hand and said, "Don't you see? That's no better than you chasing after his causes on tumblr and at the Musain. This is just one more attempt to mold yourself into something he'll accept rather than letting him come to appreciate who you already are. Grantaire... you need to pursue the things that _you_ like, that make _you_ happy. Once you've cultivated those things, _they_ are what will draw him to you... if anything will."

Grantaire reacted to those last three words as if he'd been struck, pulling his hand back from Jehan's to grab his drink, cursing as the mild tremor that had started within it caused him to slosh some over the edge of the glass. He gulped the whiskey down, trying to ignore the reverberating impact of those three words.

How had this obsession even happened? Grantaire's few sexual exploits had been just that - sexual. And brief. He was friends with many - he was a good-natured drunk and generous with his parents' money. He was easy-going and charming when he'd a mind for it. He never lacked for companionship and, in truth, he craved it. He craved friends, family... a place to belong. It was the one thing for which he _did_ have conviction. But romance? Romance was something he stayed far, far away from. The idea of giving one person that much control over his own happiness had always frightened he who had so little. So, this... this obsession with Enjolras had come from nowhere, truly blindsiding him. But the more he got to know the man on tumblr, the more he began to understand what made his mind work, why he supported the causes he did, why he didn't support others... Grantaire began to have understand the appeal, began to see why one might decide to give so much of one's self to another. Enjolras had enough conviction for both of them. There was attraction in that - in being near one's true opposite. And Grantaire knew that that was exactly what he had found in Enjolras - his perfect opposite.

Looking helplessly up at Jehan, Grantaire said, "But, I've tried everything. I've dabbled in every field offered on this campus." And he had. He'd studied a little of everything - mathematics, biology, history, languages, women's studies, political science, physics, education, business, and the list went on - and nothing had been able to hold his focus for more than a semester or two. He was hopeless.

"Not everything, R. You haven't tried... everything." Jehan's voice was quiet, apologetic, when he spoke, and when their gazes locked, Jehan's held all that and more. It was a taboo subject between them, the one emotional scar that Grantaire guarded more fiercely than any other and he couldn't believe that, of all times, Jehan would choose to prod at it, now.

_Frivolous._

_Useless._

_Barely enough passable skill to pursue as a hobby, at that._

_A waste of our time and money._

Grantaire lurched up from the table, spun away from Jehan, fists clenched and eyes squeezed shut. He was dimly aware of Jehan behind him, voice low and intense, speaking more quickly than he ever did, almost tripping over himself to get the words out. Heart pounding and ears ringing with those other remembered words, Grantaire couldn't understand a single one of them.

It wasn't until a warm hand closed on his shoulder that Grantaire came back to himself, looked up to meet Joly's understanding gaze. Musichetta took him from there, sat him back down and pressed a glass of water into his hands. Joly stood with him, stroking a hand through his hair and encouraging him to drink. Before he would, Grantaire's eyes flitted around the Corinthe, desperately looking for Jehan.

He found him standing by their table, talking urgently to Bossuet and gesturing in Grantaire's direction. It was ludicrous. His parents' failed expectations shouldn't still affect him to this extent... but they did. So long as he still took their money, they felt they had a say in his life. The drinking, they tolerated. Having a son go through a "gay phase" was almost trendy in their circles these days, so, for now, they tolerated that, as well. Even his habitual studies that never bore fruition in a degree were an acceptable eccentricity, but this... this they wouldn't tolerate. Uselessness. Idleness. Serving no purpose.

Even if it made him happy.

Even if it was the one and only thing that ever had.

When Jehan caught Grantaire looking, he stepped closer, eyes even more apologetic than before, no doubt regretting bringing it up at all. Grantaire shook his head, offered up a soft smile of his own. It wasn't Jehan's fault, that this had hit him so hard, even if Grantaire suspected he had manipulated the timing to produce an effect he'd been aiming for for years. Well, Grantaire was listening, now.

All unknowingly, in all those months of attempting to pound his passion and his convictions into Grantaire's mind and heart, Enjolras _had_, in fact, awoken something. Grantaire hadn't even seen it, but, of course, Jehan had. Jehan had always been the more observant of they two and he knew Grantaire better than anyone.

Grantaire stood and stepped away from Joly and Musichetta, put the glass to his lips and drank the water down, almost unconsciously, as his mind raced. He had some money of his own saved. He could register under another name, any other name, anything to keep it out of his official record where his parents would see it... If he was careful, he could do it.

The air around Grantaire contracted, grew thick, and it suddenly seemed as if he was seeing the world through crystal - broken and refracted into a thousand new shapes and contortions. It didn't make sense, yet. It was a cacophony of light and sound and color and it made him vaguely nauseated to even look at it.

What was he even thinking? This was a fool's errand. A useless, trivial fool's errand and he was a useless, trivial fool for even contemplating it.

...yet it was somehow, suddenly, the most crucial thing in the world.

It was hot. It was far too hot. Grantaire pulled at the collar of his shirt, tried to assuage the feeling of his heart beating up into his throat and choking off his breath. Joly replaced that hand on his shoulder, starting rubbing gentle circles there in an effort to calm him. Musichetta came back with another glass of water which Grantaire took and drained just as gratefully as he had the first.

Jehan knelt down in front of him so as to look up into his eyes, but the understanding in them was too painful, too raw, and Grantaire had to look away. Jehan leaned up and pressed a butterfly kiss to his forehead. "Somehow, we'll make it happen, R. You can have this. It's OK."

They stayed around him like that until he'd calmed, started being able to breathe, once again, without needing reassurance that the air would still be there for the next breath. He drank heavily that night, still unable to wrap his mind around the monumental nature of what he was about to do, but, come morning, stone cold sober... he made a decision.

Come the next semester, Jehan was registered for Drawing I... and the student sitting in class in his place was Grantaire.


	7. Chapter 7

**Follow You, Follow Me** (32071 words) by **Renee-chan**  
**Chapters:** 7/?  
**Fandom:** Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables (2012)  
**Rating:** Teen And Up Audiences  
**Warnings:** No Archive Warnings Apply  
**Relationships:** Enjolras/Grantaire, Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta  
**Characters:** Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras (Les Misérables), Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire, Joly (Les Misérables), Bossuet Laigle, Combeferre (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Feuilly (Les Misérables), Éponine Thénardier, Cosette Fauchelevent, Jean Valjean, Inspector Javert, Gavroche Thénardier  
**Additional Tags:** Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Tumblr, Slow Build, Mistaken Identity, Anonymity, Obsessive Behaviour, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Addiction, Angst, Self-Esteem Issues, Rating May Change  
**Series:** Part 2 of Follow You, Follow Me

**Chapter Summary:**  
Enjolras' messages to Rebus were different, now. They were polite, gentle in a way that Grantaire didn't - that Grantaire _couldn't_ - associate with Enjolras, no matter how hard he tried. They offered glimpses into Enjolras' life, his thoughts. It was as though Grantaire were listening in on one half of a conversation that Enjolras was having with an old friend... an old friend he no longer expected an answer from but with whom he couldn't stop speaking if he tried. Grantaire had only ever heard people talk like that in one setting before.

...at a gravestone.

**_June 15, 2013:_** As always, I appreciate everyone's patience. And for those of you who haven't found it and would like to, part of the reason I took so long with this chapter was that I wrote a 7500 word side story/prequel to FYFM in between working on Chapter 7. It focuses on Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre and is a bit heavily angst-laden... because, well... that's just how I roll, sometimes. ^_~

I'd also like to offer up a thank you to distractedkat, who quite unintentionally (and then quite purposefully ^_^) helped me untangle an issue I was having with the central piece of this story. The end result of that discussion was that there will be a sequel to FYFM. -.-;;; Enjolras and Grantaire will be sorted by the end of this story, however, so don't worry about that. ^_^

And... I think that's enough babbling for now. I hope you enjoy Chapter 7!

* * *

**_Follow You, Follow Me - Chapter 7_**  
by _Renee-chan (eirenical)_

* * *

"Grantaire, dear, have you had a chance to reacquaint yourself with Eleanor? You remember her, I'm sure. You attended school together."

When Grantaire simply continued to give his mother a blank stare for her spate of prompting, she finally huffed and leaned over to hiss into his ear, "The Nemours girl, Grantaire. Do at least _pretend_ to keep up, will you?" When she straightened, she gave the two a bright smile and said, "Why don't you go off and get reacquainted? I'm sure you have much to talk about."

Grantaire rolled his eyes. He'd gone to an exclusive grade school which fed directly into an equally exclusive high school. Grantaire and Eleanor had been classmates since they were five in a grade level which contained no more than thirty students in any given year. He remembered her. Of course, he remembered her. Eleanor had never been pretty. Neither had Grantaire. They had been thrown together at functions such as these and sent off to "get reacquainted" more times than Grantaire cared to count.

The truth, though, was that Grantaire had always felt worse for Eleanor than he did even for himself. At least Grantaire had college as his ticket out. Eleanor... didn't. No one spoke the words, but there was something about Eleanor - something sweet, something unencumbered. It happened among their families from time to time, from too many years of marrying too close. Though Eleanor was completely capable in many ways, in others... she needed looking after. So, she was always seen as somehow less... as somehow undesirable. The sad thing was that Eleanor was kind, and though she had a wicked streak Grantaire well admired, she never held a grudge for long. She also had the voice of an angel if you could coax her to sing - not that you ever could within hearing distance of her family. Singing got her noticed and that was something her family most especially didn't want. It was wrong. She deserved better treatment than she got. She always had. Grantaire knocked back his fourth glass of champagne, shrugged off his mother's deepening scowl and offered Eleanor his arm. At least Eleanor never demanded he be anything but what he was. At least Eleanor's company made these ridiculous functions tolerable.

Tonight was the first of many such celebrations of the Christmas season. This one was being hosted by... fuck, Grantaire didn't even remember. Probably the work of some branch of the Du Pont family or another. They always opened the season like this, here at Longwood Gardens, among the ever blooms of the Conservatory. For years, it had made Grantaire itch for a sketchpad just walking in here. But, like Eleanor's singing, Grantaire's art was a secret best not trotted out into the light and he'd forced himself to ignore such impulses until they faded completely.

_Barely enough passable skill to pursue as a hobby, at that._

Wincing away from those poisonous memories, Grantaire hunched down into his tuxedo jacket and increased his pace. Eleanor giggled and began walking faster beside him. Seeing the relief lift her face more and more with each hurried step, Grantaire couldn't help but smile in return. Eyes twinkling, he leaned in close and whispered, "On your mark..."

Eleanor giggled again and whispered back, "Get set..."

Together they whispered, "Go!" and broke into a run. And Grantaire deliberately ignored it when he caught that gleam in his mother's eyes as he and Eleanor ran off - a gleam which had her immediately turning towards Eleanor's mother, heads bowing together with some new set of nefarious plans to marry off their undesirable children.

Grantaire pulled Eleanor out through the exhibition hall and into the main conservatory, barely noticing the rich blooms and twinkling lights. They raced through the Silver Garden, narrowly avoided Eleanor's elder sister and her fiancé by ducking out and down the Fern Passageway. As they neared the Cascade Garden, Grantaire slowed his steps just enough that they reached it exactly in stride, breathless with relief and the excitement of a good run. This was their own place for these functions. Even Grantaire's mother wasn't stubborn enough to follow them here, so far away from the main party, to this humid, stifling corner of the conservatory for which everyone was always too warmly dressed this time of year to properly enjoy. But, Grantaire had no problem stripping out of his jacket and rolling up his sleeves and Eleanor didn't care if her overly teased hair fell flat... so it was perfect.

Grantaire hitched himself up on one of the rails as Eleanor leaned over to stick her hands in the fall of water beside him. The smell of chlorine was almost stifling, but neither of them cared. It was far preferable to the alternative. After a few moments of comfortable silence, Grantaire pulled his flask from his jacket pocket and took a generous drink before offering it to Eleanor. She wrinkled her nose at him and shook her head. When he answered that by taking another drink, she sighed and said, "I wish you didn't have to do that. You're no fun when you've been drinking."

As Grantaire reluctantly tucked the flask away, he couldn't help thinking that it really was a good thing he had no interest in women, because that tone in Eleanor's voice had always so successfully tied him around her little finger and the bright smile she gave him when he did something of which she approved really shouldn't make his heart beat faster with pride. It really shouldn't. Eleanor went back to playing in the water, tongue caught between her teeth in happy concentration, completely ignoring that she was getting her (no doubt designer) shoes thoroughly wet. For the first time in a long time, Grantaire's hands itched for a sketchbook and charcoals. It was as though since agreeing to Jehan's ridiculous plan, drawing was all he could think about... and that was dangerous.

Eleanor caught him watching and offered him a bright smile. She stood up and came over to lean against his leg where it bounced on the rail and his breath caught when she tucked her head against his shoulder. He forced himself into stillness and as Grantaire relaxed, so did she. Moments later, she smiled and began to softly sing...

"Silent night... Holy night... All is calm, all is bright..."

Grantaire let himself drift on her voice, happy as always that he could at least give her this. When that song rolled away into the distance, she began another, and another, even coaxed him into joining her on Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, delighted as always when he threw in as many raunchy add-in lines as he could remember. When she ran out of songs - or at least the desire to sing them - she asked in that simple, unadorned way of hers, "Why don't you ever come home, anymore? I miss you."

Sighing heavily, Grantaire said, "I know you do, Ellie. I just... I..." To his eternal embarrassment, Grantaire's voice choked off there, unwilling to allow him to continue.

Eleanor nodded, her eyes sad. "You hate it here. You hate all of them."

"Hate's a strong word."

"But it's the right one," she shot back, eyes twinkling, grin sassy as hell.

Grantaire couldn't help but laugh and swept her as much of a bow as he could from his perch on the rail. "Touché, Ellie. Touché."

Before she could ask any other pointed, too clever questions, a buzz from Grantaire's rear pants pocket made him yipe and all but fall off the rail. He caught himself at the last moment, managed to turn it into more of a controlled dismount than a fall, but that didn't stop his face from reddening in embarrassment when Eleanor started to giggle. As he lifted himself back onto the railing, Grantaire said, "Haha, Ellie. Laugh while you can. Someday when _your_ butt buzzes and scares the living hell out of you, I'll be there waiting to laugh at you." As he spoke, Grantaire automatically went through the motions of checking the message... and froze when he saw who it was from.

Enjolras.

Damn it.

Ever since "Rebus" had backed away from talking to him, Enjolras had been sending him messages - sometimes daily, sometimes as often as hourly. It seemed to vary with his mood and stress level. Grantaire didn't dare tell Jehan, but he'd read them all. At first, they were demanding - demands for information, for contact, for anything - culminating in the one that Jehan had so precipitously responded to right before finals. The messages stopped for a few days after that, then resumed, only... they were different. They were polite, gentle in a way that Grantaire didn't - that Grantaire _couldn't_ - associate with Enjolras, no matter how hard he tried. They offered glimpses into Enjolras' life, his thoughts. It was as though Grantaire were listening in on one half of a conversation that Enjolras was having with an old friend... an old friend he no longer expected an answer from but with whom he couldn't stop speaking if he tried. Grantaire had only ever heard people talk like that in one setting before.

...at a gravestone.

Turning the screen away from Eleanor, Grantaire opened the message. It read:

~_I've returned home to New York for the holiday season and, as such, may not be able to post as regularly as I do while at school, nor send you messages as frequently. It is my sincere hope that you have somewhere to spend the season, whether or not you celebrate it, and people whom you care about to spend it with._~

~_...I wish I were among them. -Enjolras_~

Grantaire read that message, read it again... and began cursing. The muttered stream of profanities began quietly, then slowly rose in volume and intensity until at last he was all but screaming and Eleanor - eyes wide in a mixture of awe and horror - was frantically trying to shush him. He dropped his voice back down to a harsh whisper and finished with, "...fucking _hell_."

He couldn't answer. He _couldn't_. Jehan was right. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Jehan was _right_. It wasn't Grantaire whom Enjolras missed with such passion. It was Rebus. And Rebus... Rebus wasn't real. But he couldn't do nothing. They might be directed at someone who didn't exist, but the pain and loneliness emanating from those lines of text were real enough. Those were the words of someone who needed reassurance... badly. Someone needed to check up on Enjolras, make sure he was all right... but who could Rebus possibly ask to do that?

After a few minutes of thinking - and ignoring Eleanor's ever more insistent questions - Grantaire sighed. There was only one person who had the means to check up on Enjolras, the understanding to accept the sudden contact without asking too many questions, and the discretion to keep it a secret.

Courfeyrac.

Grantaire pinched the bridge of his nose as he debated the merits of sending that message and finally, tentatively decided it was worth it. He had to know that Enjolras was all right. This vacation was going to be painful enough without that worry hanging over his head. He opened a new fanmail to loveslabourslost and typed:

~_Look... I realize I kind of dropped off the face of the planet these last two weeks. It's a long story and I just... look, I had my reasons, all right? And this isn't me reestablishing contact. It's just... Enjolras has been sending me messages and they're, well... increasingly lovelorn. I can't- look. I can't respond to him. I really can't. And I don't want him to know that I've messaged you. But... is he all right? Because it seems like he's not all right... and I'm worried. I realize this is presumptuous to ask and probably puts you in all kinds of an awkward position, but... Would you check up on him? Let me know if he's OK? I'd appreciate it. -Rebus_~ And then he waited.

After what seemed like a lifetime - but proved to be no more than ten minutes, according to the clock on Grantaire's phone - he received a message in response.

~_It's good to know you're OK, Rebus. We've all been worried. It's too late to call tonight, but I promise I'll check up on him in the morning. And don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. ^_~ -loveslabourswon_~

Too late to call? It was barely eight and Enjolras had messaged him only thirty minutes ago. Still, though Grantaire chafed at being told to wait, he sent nothing but a brief thank you in response. Don't look a gift Courfeyrac in the mouth. He was probably busy with his own holiday family stuff and couldn't get away to make the phone call. Grantaire could wait until morning. He could. Turning back to Eleanor, Grantaire said, "What do you say to getting the fuck out of here?"

Eleanor smiled, cheeks creasing into little dimples as she answered, "Will you tell me about the boy who's got you all hot and bothered, if we do?" When Grantaire spluttered that there was no boy to tell about, she rolled her eyes and said, "I may be retarded, Grantaire, but even I'm not that stupid. What else could make you blush and go all dewy-eyed like that?"

Grantaire froze, slowly turned back towards Eleanor and grabbed her hands in his. When he spoke, he was impressed that his voice didn't shake and didn't come out as a yell. Instead it was deceptively quiet and full of thunder, "Ellie... where did you hear that word?"

"What, dewy-eyed? I don't know. A movie, I think."

The tone was innocent enough, but the way Eleanor immediately ducked her eyes to avoid meeting his gaze told Grantaire that she knew damned well which word he'd meant. He chucked a finger under her chin and said, "You're not retarded, Ellie. And I'll happily introduce my fists to the face of anyone who says otherwise - your parents and prissy-prig sister included. You hear me?"

Eleanor sighed, then reached out to cup Grantaire's face in her hands and brush her lips briefly against his. When she leaned back, her eyes were full of more world-weary knowledge than anyone in that far distant ballroom would ever have given her credit for or believed she possessed. She said softly, "I know what I am, Grantaire. I'm ugly. I'm a retard. Who cares who said it? It's true." When Grantaire opened his mouth to argue, she covered it with her hand. "I mean... the only one of _them_ who matters is you, so as long as it's not you saying it, I don't care. I don't. It's just sounds. So... It's OK."

Grantaire pulled her into a tight hug and fought off a sudden spate of tears. Eleanor was braver than he could ever hope to be and she had so many more disadvantages. It really wasn't fair. She deserved better. And Grantaire knew firsthand how badly those words-that-were-just-sounds could wound. He'd fielded more than his fair share, too... and from the people whose words should have mattered most.

Eventually, Eleanor poked him in the shoulder and said quietly, "You were saying something about getting out of here, homo?"

Grantaire jerked back in surprise but relaxed when he saw the humor in Eleanor's eyes. When he murmured quietly, "Just sounds, huh?" she nodded. He leaned in closer and said, "Well, then, if it's all the same, I prefer 'fairy'." He winked, "Sounds better and I could even dress the part if I wanted."

Deliberately turning off his phone to avoid any other potential interruptions, Grantaire offered Eleanor his arm and led her back to the main conservatory to pick up their coats. As they walked, he started talking, "So, what do you know about tumblr...?"

The front door to the Musain slammed open and those inside jerked around to see a lanky figure silhouetted in the doorway just long enough to strike a dramatic pose and yell, "Honey, I'm home!" before ambling in and draping itself over the bar. Grantaire beamed up at Eponine as he did so and said sweetly, "Eponine. Sweetheart. Love of my life. Provider of that sweet elixir which keeps my blood pumping. Have I told you lately how very dear you are to me? Have I told you lately that you are the light at the end of the very dark tunnel that is my life? Have I-?"

Before Grantaire could even get that last sentence out, Eponine had plunked a triple of whisky on the bar in front of him. Her eyebrows climbed up into her hairline as she lifted an imperious finger to point Grantaire to his usual table in the corner. When he hesitated to go, she narrowed her eyes and said, "Good G-d, Grantaire. Get the first one in you and get whatever this is the fuck out of your system before you come back for another." As Grantaire lifted his drink to cradle it close and scoot away from the bar, he overheard her mutter, "Christ, what is _wrong_ with everyone tonight?"

Once Grantaire was settled in at his usual table, Joly and Bossuet joined him, sharing glad greetings and rounds of cheers at their reunion. And it wasn't until his friends settled in around him and started a leisurely rehash of what he'd missed while home over break that Grantaire realized exactly how tense he'd been until that moment. The rest of his 'vacation' had been no better than the start of it. He'd spent more time with Eleanor than with his family - something which had thrilled his and Eleanor's mothers to no end and, in the end, only put added pressure on them both - but that endless go-round of being under his parents' intense scrutiny at social functions and being virtually invisible at all other times had started to weigh on him very heavily by the time vacation was over.

Add to that the fact that the longer Grantaire was home, the harder it was to hide his anticipation of that one class he and Jehan were pulling the switch on... and it was a wonder he hadn't given himself an ulcer. He could think of little else, had even caught himself scribbling on cocktail napkins at some of the later events, in spite of his best intentions. Ellie had been entranced, had insisted on keeping all of his scribbles - mostly of her - and encouraged him to scribble more. But, he didn't dare. He really didn't dare. Besides... they weren't any good. They really weren't. This was going to end up a waste of his time because he'd never make it past this first level drawing class. Still... Jehan was right. He had to try.

_Barely enough passable skill to pursue as a hobby, at that._

It wasn't until someone let out a low whistle beside him that Grantaire realized that his idle thoughts had combined with his itching fingers to doodle on yet another cocktail napkin. Long-held instincts won out over common sense and he crumpled it into his hand and jerked it out of sight before looking up.

Courfeyrac stood across the table, beer bottle in hand, looking like he'd had more than his fair share, already. He nodded towards the napkin whose folds were just peaking out from between the gaps in Grantaire's fingers. "Didn't know you did that."

"I don't." The answer was so curt as to be bordering on rude and Grantaire winced at himself. He repeated himself, more calmly this time, "I don't. It was just... doodling. You know. Nothing serious."

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow and leaned forward to try to pry the napkin loose from Grantaire's hand. When that proved too difficult a task for a fairly inebriated man to accomplish, he sighed dramatically and said, "I just wanted to see it. She's cute. Who is she?"

With every word, Courfeyrac got louder and louder, and he was starting to draw Eponine's scowling attention. Grantaire leaned closer and said, "Jesus Christ, Courfeyrac, shut _up_." At the pout he received in return for that admonition, Grantaire rolled his eyes and said, "If I promise to show you, will you sit down and be quiet? It's barely 7. I don't want to get kicked out so early on my first night back. How long have you been here, anyway? You're already drunk off your ass."

Courfeyrac sat down, a smirk painted securely on his face as he shrugged and gestured helplessly to his lips, then made a locking motion near them and pretended to throw away the key. Grantaire couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. Right. Sit down and be quiet. Trust Courfeyrac to be as big a pain in the rear as he could be, even when drunk. At least that was a quality that Grantaire could admire. In answer, he crumpled the napkin further and threw it at Courfeyrac's head.

It never connected.

A hand reached out and snatched the napkin from the air right before it would have collided with Courfeyrac's head. Grantaire lunged after it, but wasn't fast enough to prevent a newly arrived Jehan from smoothing it out and oohing and aahing over it. When Jehan raised his gaze to catch Grantaire's, he said simply, "I've only met her the once, but I think you captured her essence pretty well, R." His smile slid into a smirk. "Good to see you haven't been wasting time getting back to practicing, either."

Grantaire whimpered as Jehan handed the napkin off to Courfeyrac and settled into the seat between they two. The others immediately crowded around to get a better look. Grantaire buried his head in his arms and refused to look at any of them. Jehan leaned over and gently kissed his temple, his voice a quiet murmur as he spoke. "Sorry, love. I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have teased you in public like that. Not about this. Not yet. Not when I take it your visit home was as wretched as ever and has you securely tied up in knots like usual... yes?"

Grantaire lifted his head just enough to pin Jehan with a stare that clearly said, "Drop it." When Jehan lifted his hands as though in surrender, Grantaire nudged him under the table with his foot and offered him a watered down grin and changed the subject, deliberately shifting the focus away from himself. "So, how was Paris? Seduce any hot Parisians with your poetry? And how are your parents?"

Jehan laughed, leaned back in his chair to stretch his legs out in front of him and said, "Lovely, as always - it was glorious to get away for a while. My feet were positively burning from having been stuck to this city for so long and I've always loved Paris. I'm glad that's where my parents were when I called. This was much more relaxing than the time I caught up with them in Yakutia. It's way too damned cold up there, if you ask me."

Grantaire laughed in return. Unless Jehan had a pressing reason not to, when vacations called, no matter how briefly, he or his parents would find a way to get him to wherever they were at the time. And just as they'd been for most of his childhood, his parents were still very much gypsies. They never stayed long in one place and they'd raised Jehan to be a student of the world rather than any one particular school or culture. Still, they had a special attachment to the French and returned there over and over. In a way, Paris was more home to Jehan than America could ever be. No matter where he was, though, just like his parents, Jehan was never happy when stuck in one place for too long... and Grantaire was all too well aware that the only reason Jehan had stayed so long in this particular place was because Grantaire needed him. It was humbling. To dispel the surge of melancholy that thought always brought along with it, Grantaire nudged Jehan and said, "And your parents?"

Jehan smiled. "My parents are wonderful, as usual. My grandmother showed up with her latest conquest the week before I returned, as well. It was a regular family reunion on the banks of the Seine, R. You'd have love it. Between you and me, though, I think Mammy's still surprised that my parents are still together. She kept muttering something about not believing that neither of them had gotten bored yet."

Grantaire snorted out a laugh at that. Jehan's family "reunions" were much more fun and far less stress inducing than his own, and since they had a very fluid idea of what constituted "family," Grantaire had found himself dragged into them whenever they occurred close by. Between his grandmother's lovers - scattered around the globe in every known port of call - and his parents' open marriage, Jehan had "family" in just about every major city on Earth and quite a few less major ones, as well - hippies and gypsies, every one of them.

Jehan waggled his eyebrows. "And as for the hot Parisians... the running tally when I left was fourteen and I'd accounted for at least four of them."

"At _least_ four? Aren't you sure?" Joly looked mortified as he spoke the words. Courfeyrac had left off staring at Grantaire's doodle in favor of staring at Jehan. He looked like he'd like to start kowtowing. Grantaire understood. Even given the circumstances of their first meeting, Jehan was usually so _meek_ - he collected flowers, pictures of kittens and was prone to dressing in grandma sweaters whenever the weather turned cold, for goodness' sake - that it was hard to remember, sometimes, that he had this hiding inside him, as well.

Jehan offered up a sheepish grin at the aghast looks on Joly and Courfeyrac's faces. "Well... the fifth and sixth were debatable. Mammy and I were having a bit of a contest over a pair of gorgeous brunettes - seriously, they were... I could write sonnets. I _did_ write sonnets. Four of them right there on that bridge. Skin of darkest mahogany, eyes of deepest black, hair that shone in the lamplight..." His eyes became distant for a moment as he lost himself in memory. After a moment, he shook himself back awake and said, "It was without doubt my poetry that entranced them over, and that should have settled the competition right there... but it turned out they only preferred other women and ended up going off with Mammy in spite of all my hard work." He sighed dramatically.

Before he could say anything further, however, Courfeyrac interrupted him by choking on his latest swallow of beer. Jehan whipped around to face him just in time for Courfeyrac to splutter out, "Wait... you? With a woman? With two women? You do that?"

Jehan and Grantaire looked at each other, then back at Courfeyrac. At the completely poleaxed expression on his face, both laughed. Courfeyrac blushed wildly, and ducked his head, busying himself with his bottle. To be fair, Grantaire could commiserate - that had caught him by surprise in the beginning, too. Eventually Jehan wiped his eyes free of the laughter-induced tears and said, "Oh, boy. I'm sorry, Courfeyrac. It's just... I get that a lot. Eventually, you just have to laugh about it and learn to enjoy being so hard to label." Eyes twinkling, he said, "In short? Yes. I do that." He draped an arm over Grantaire's shoulders and said sweetly, "And I also do this." Ignoring Grantaire's protests that Jehan most certainly did _not_ do "this" anymore, Jehan finished with a soft, "Is that a problem?"

Courfeyrac quickly shook his head and said, "No! I, uh... do that, too." His blush deepened. "Both, that is. I do-" He hung his head and groaned. "I'm just sticking my foot farther and farther down my throat, here, aren't I?"

Someone else stepped up to the table, then, and clapped Courfeyrac on the back. "Clearly. And clearly Eponine was right when she called me to come retrieve you. You've had enough. How did you manage that by 7:30 and all by yourself, anyway? How long have you been back?"

"Long enough." Courfeyrac lifted his bottle of beer and drained it before standing and grabbing Combeferre's face and planting sloppy kisses on both cheeks. When he leaned back, he smiled a soft, genuine smile, "Missed you."

Combeferre smiled back and pulled Courfeyrac into a brief hug before draping Courfeyrac's arm over his shoulders in preparation of guiding him out of the Musain. "I missed you, too. Now, why don't we work on getting you outside and to the bus stop?"

Already thrown off his public stride by that revelation of Jehan's vacation exploits and not yet resettled, Joly's eyes widened in horror. Before any could think to shush him, he blurted out, "You're going to take him home on the bus? When he's this inebriated? What if he throws up? It might get on someone! Someone might _sit_ in it. The entire city could become ill!"

Even as Grantaire and Jehan rolled their eyes, Combeferre's eyes widened. Joly was on his best behavior during classes and did his best not to let his neuroses show in that professional atmosphere. As such, Combeferre had never seen him in one of these irrational panics before. Before any of them could say anything, however, Bossuet simply reached a hand up and patted Joly on the cheek. As those wide eyes turned and slowly focused on Bossuet's dark-skinned face, Bossuet smiled. He said softly, "Not your problem, Joly."

"But-!"

"Not your problem." This time the words were firmer, though no less gentle than before.

"But, what if-!"

"Not. Your. Problem." The third time they were spoken those words brooked no argument. As Joly slumped against Bossuet's hand, Bossuet used it to gently curl Joly into his arms. Once Joly was there, taking in deep breaths to push back the panic, Bossuet said, "And on that note, I think we've had enough for tonight, too." He turned his head downwards to direct his next words towards Joly and, with them, threw Joly's girlfriend under the proverbial bus without even a qualm. "Musichetta said something about closing early tonight so she could get a break before all the college kids flood in this week. Do you want to see if she wants help tidying the place up for the new semester?"

At those words, Joly's head shot up, a distinct gleam in his eyes that his friends knew all too well. He said, "Yes. Yes, that would be... Bossuet, the Corinthe hasn't had a thorough disinfecting in _weeks_. And all those undergrads..." He shuddered. "They have no sense of respect for other people's property. They destroy things and they make _such_ a mess. It's the _least_ we can do to start the place off clean!"

As Joly leapt from his chair to go fetch their coats, Grantaire looked up at Bossuet and smiled. "Well... that's new."

Bossuet's dark skin flushed a dusky pink and he shrugged. "Not really. Just... we've all reached a new understanding. It works even better than the old one. And it helps. Both of them. So..." He shrugged again.

Jehan leaned over to grip Bossuet's hand. "Good for you, then, my friend. Good for you."

Once they'd left, Grantaire turned to explain to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, but Combeferre hastily held up a hand. "No. Please don't. I strongly suspect that Courfeyrac is too drunk for that explanation and that I am too sober. It can wait." He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, then said, "Besides, I need to sober this one up as much as I can before Enjolras gets back tonight because doubtless he'll be chomping at the bit to get started on plans for the SJWs for the semester and he won't take kindly to having to wait. We'll be up until all hours getting it all sorted otherwise."

Jehan laughed softly, "Better you than me." After another moment of commiserating silence, Jehan said, "You know... you lot should really think about changing your name. Everyone knows what SJW stands for. It's so... confrontational."

Courfeyrac spoke up from where he'd tucked his head into Combeferre's neck. "I've been saying that for years, haven't I? We should call ourselves the 'Justice Friends!'"

Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose again and explained in such a slow, careful way that they got the idea he'd 'explained' this numerous times before, "And Enjolras has told you for years that he won't tolerate calling us by a name that sounds so much like a superhero conglomerate."

"Then how about the Friends of Justice?"

"That's no better, Courfeyrac."

"The Friends of the Oppressed?"

"_No_, Courfeyrac."

"Well, we should be the friends of _something_. The other makes us sound like vigilantes! That's even worse than superheroes."

"The Friends of the Oppressed...?"

Grantaire turned quickly as Jehan murmured those words, a light in his eyes that Grantaire was all too familiar with. "Jehan...?" he said, softly, a warning in his voice.

Jehan began to laugh. All eyes turned to him as that laughter increased in volume. By the time he'd dissolved into giggles, Combeferre looked as though he was ready to flee with Courfeyrac and never return. Grantaire sighed and said, "You'll have to forgive him. He just... he likes these really bad puns. Really bad _French_ puns. That's how I ended up 'R' in the first place... and some day you should ask Lesgle how he ended up 'Bossuet'. Really. It's a show stopper." Grantaire shook his head.

Just then, Jehan looked back up, a fierce light in his eyes as he said, "No, but this is _brilliant_. You can be... Les Amis de l'Abaissés!"

"They can be _what_?" Grantaire couldn't help asking the question, even though he knew he was going to regret it.

Jehan waved his hand expansively, "The Friends of the Oppressed - or the Friends of the Lowly, the Downtrodden, the Humble. That's what you are, right?" At Combeferre's hesitant nod, Jehan pulled a cocktail napkin over and wrote "Friends of the Oppressed". Underneath that, he wrote "Les Amis de l'Abaissés". Then he looked up and smiled widely at them and explained, "And abaissés, in French, is pronounced just like the letters..." Beneath the last word, he wrote "A-B-C". At the very bottom of the napkin, he then inked the full name in flourished calligraphy - "Les Amis de l'ABC" - and offered them a beaming smile as he delivered that punch line.

No one laughed.

No one laughed... but another voice spoke up from behind them to say, "I love it. We'll make changing it item two on the agenda tonight."

Combeferre turned to see a smiling Enjolras hovering at his side. Of course. Because, Enjolras would be early and was just as much a fan of all things French as Jehan. The new name suited him to a tee. Combeferre asked, "What's item one?"

Enjolras scowled at Courfeyrac, then turned on his heel and marched back out the way he'd come. Courfeyrac frowned after him, then finally said quietly, "Me? I'm item number one?"

Combeferre sighed heavily and hung his head. "As I said... getting you functional is. Come on. We'll have the meeting at my place, tonight. I stocked the refrigerator when I returned this afternoon and, in anticipation of just such an event, I purchased plenty of that Propel flavor you like." He sniffed in Courfeyrac's direction and rolled his eyes, "And perhaps a hot shower wouldn't go amiss, either."

They said their goodbyes, Courfeyrac still whining about having to work even _before_ classes started and Combeferre good-naturedly shooting down his every argument against such work. Grantaire simply looked at Jehan. Before he could say a word, however, his phone buzzed. Eyes widening, Grantaire pulled it out and checked - sure enough, there was already a message from Enjolras. It was short and to the point... and it made Grantaire's blood run cold.

~_I'm back. I trust that you are, as well. No more games, Rebus. This time, I'm going to find you and we're going to talk this out like rational adults. Count on it. -Enjolras_~

Jehan's answer when he read it was even shorter and more to the point. He scowled at the phone and said quite vehemently, "The hell you will - not if _I_ can help it."

* * *

**A/N:** For those interested, Longwood Gardens is a real place. It is one of my _favorite_ places. Once the estate of the Du Ponts (They are the closest thing Delaware has to royalty... and yes, they really are as inbred as I made them out to be - and if Grantaire came from money in the DE/PA area... he was raised right smack in the middle of it.), it is now open to the public as a sprawling garden with miles and miles of trails, both cultivated and wild. It's a little piece of heaven on Earth. They do still host weddings and galas on the grounds and in the Conservatory, as well. And you should _see_ the place done up in lights for the Christmas season. *_* Seriously. Go look it up. *nodnod*

_Also, I don't normally do this, but I wanted to respond and I hope you'll see it..._  
**Punchy** - Thank you so much for your kind reviews for both this story and KYKM! I'm glad you feel I've been getting Grantaire's character correct, too. And, yes, you did catch a Vikings reference in the earlier chapters. I couldn't resist. ^_~ As for more of C&C in FYFM... there will be little hints of "more than friendship" here and there, but not much more than that, I'm afraid. *coughs* OTOH, that sequel I mentioned that's now happening? That's going to be _all_ for Courfeyrac and there will be plenty of C&C in there. ^_~ Thank you again for your lovely reviews and I hope you don't mind me responding like this!


	8. Chapter 8

**_June 28, 2013:_** My apologies, for taking so long with this chapter. I've had plenty of RL things going on and I confess, my muse deserted me for a bit. I believe she's back, finally, though, or at least is here for a good, long visit.

This chapter marks the inclusion of the last of Les Amis to make his appearance. He made it into this chapter by the skin of his teeth, and not yet by name, but at least I finally have it sorted where he fits. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**_Follow You, Follow Me - Chapter 8_**  
by _Renee-chan_

* * *

This was a disaster. Combeferre sighed as he nudged Courfeyrac back upright on the couch. In spite of Combeferre's efforts to revive and rehydrate him, Courfeyrac seemed determined to wallow in his drunkenness for as long as he could. He was all but useless in this condition and Combeferre couldn't help but wonder what had possessed him to get drunk when he had to have known that Enjolras would have things he would want to accomplish when he returned from break. It wasn't that it was out of character - Courfeyrac had been known to overindulge for as little a reason as boredom, before, after all - but it was horrendously poor timing, and managing a drunk Courfeyrac and a riled Enjolras at the same time was more than any one man should ever have to deal with alone.

Sensing a pause in Enjolras' current rant, Combeferre said, "And how, exactly, did the dining hall get added to the list of injustices we are campaigning against this semester?"

Courfeyrac giggled from where he'd once again fallen against Combeferre's shoulder. "Because they're a general menace to the digestive tract and carefully groomed palate?"

Enjolras gave the pair of them a withering look and relaunched himself on the topic at hand - lack of any variety (and in some cases any option at all) for vegetarian, vegan, kosher - the list went on - menus in the dining hall. Compared to some of Enjolras' grand ideals it was small and a bit out of character. On the other hand, it was something local, something personal, a problem for which the SJ- les Amis de l'ABC - and good grief, that was a mouthful, wasn't it? - might actually be able to effect a positive change. At the very least, it was a problem that might get more students involved, might attract them some help in their actions, if Enjolras could let go of enough control to let new blood in - Jean Prouvaire, for example.

Jehan had only been to a few of their meetings - and mostly to keep an eye on the habitual explosions of temper between Enjolras and Grantaire, Combeferre suspected - but he was astute, he was diplomatic in ways that Enjolras only ever dreamed of being, he looked harmless yet was anything but, he was eloquent and intelligent, and he'd traveled enough of the world that he was familiar with the cultures of far more peoples than the current members of les Amis de l'ABC. He'd be a wonderful recruit to put on this latest project if they could convince him to be involved in a more direct way than he had been so far.

Combeferre sighed. Likely, enticing Jehan to become more involved with them was nothing but a pipe dream so long as Grantaire and Enjolras were at each other's throats. Really, someone ought to put leashes on them and drag them away from each other when they got riled like that. The moment he had that thought, though, Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. Because, that wasn't precisely the problem, was it? Jehan had proven more than once that he was capable of doing exactly that for Grantaire, diverting him so smoothly away from Enjolras that the poor man didn't even realize he'd been diverted half the time. No. The one who was falling down on the job, here, was Combeferre. He needed to get a better grip on Enjolras. But, how? Perhaps the next time Courfeyrac joined Grantaire, Jehan and their friends at the Musain, he should tag along. Then Combeferre could ask Jehan his questions directly and perhaps find a new ally in the process.

Courfeyrac chose that moment to tip over the rest of the way into Combeferre's lap and start quietly snoring. Combeferre froze. Happening, as it had, in a moment of lull between Enjolras' speechmaking and grandstanding, it immediately drew both men's attention. As Enjolras scowled down at Courfeyrac, Combeferre couldn't help the protective arm he draped over him in response. Enjolras frowned harder at that but didn't call him on it. He merely dropped down into the armchair across from the couch and threw his hands in the air. "Why do I even bother? You're both all but useless, tonight."

Sighing heavily, Combeferre said, "It's late, Enjolras, even for you, and we're all weary from the day's journeys. Perhaps it would be best to leave off the rest of the discussion until after tomorrow's classes."

Though he held it for as long as he could, eventually, Enjolras' cloudy expression broke to reveal one just as exhausted as Courfeyrac's underneath. He lifted his hands to rub at his temples. "You're right. Of course, you're right. My apologies, my friend. That was unkind of me."

Combeferre waited. He knew Enjolras' every mood, his every shift in body language. In spite of his words, this discussion wasn't over. There was something more to be said. Combeferre could feel it. Quietly, he prodded, "Was there something else?"

It took Enjolras several moments of deep thought and even more of rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair before he answered. And when he did, Combeferre immediately wished he hadn't pushed. The answer was one word.

"Rebus."

Oh, no. Combeferre closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Courfeyrac was much better at dealing with this particular brand of Enjolras-issue than he. Aiming for as neutral a query as he could, Combeferre said, "What about Rebus?"

"I want him back. Combeferre, it's been two months of nothing. Just... nothing." Enjolras repeated himself, quietly but with conviction. "I want him back."

"I know you do, Enjolras. I know you do." Combeferre reached his hand out and when Enjolras reached out in turn, Combeferre gripped his hand and held it tightly. "Unfortunately, there's nothing we can do about it. Rebus isn't responding to messages from any of us at this point and you can't force someone to interact with you if they don't wish to do so. Whatever Rebus' reasons are for breaking off contact, for now, all you can do is accept them and move on as best you can. Maybe someday things will change... but that day isn't today. So rather than pining over what you can't have, focus on affecting the things you can." Letting go of Enjolras' hand, Combeferre patted the notepad he'd been jotting down ideas on earlier. "This idea about the dining hall menu, for example. It's a good one. You should focus your energies on that and on your classes. With any luck, the rest will resolve itself."

Thankfully, Enjolras conceded that Combeferre was right about needing to refocus - or he was just too tired to argue the point further. Either way, he hadn't given up - Combeferre could see it in his eyes - but at least the issue was tabled for now. After another moment of silence, Courfeyrac turned over in his sleep, turning his face into Combeferre's stomach and loosely working an arm around his waist. When Combeferre stiffened and blushed at that move, Enjolras finally smiled. He nodded towards Courfeyrac and said, "You're also right that it's late, my friend. And since you're a little tied up at the moment, I'll see myself out." He patted Combeferre's shoulder and ran a gentle hand through Courfeyrac's hair as he passed but said nothing else. There was nothing more to say.

As soon as the door closed behind Enjolras, Combeferre turned back to Courfeyrac, trying to determine how he could extricate himself from this highly undignified embrace without waking the one sleeping so deeply upon him. Only... when he looked down, it was to discover that Courfeyrac wasn't asleep any longer. He had one eye open and was blearily staring at Combeferre. Combeferre relaxed at that and said, softly, "How long have you been awake?"

Courfeyrac slowly pushed himself upright, rubbed at his eyes and resettled himself at the opposite end of the couch. Combeferre firmly told himself that he wasn't disappointed, that he didn't feel a pang of regret at no longer having his friend sprawled across his lap like an overly content cat. And he didn't. Not really.

Courfeyrac sighed. "Long enough. Combeferre... there's something I need to tell you." Courfeyrac rubbed his hands vigorously over his face, leaving behind a grimace when he dropped those hands back into his lap. "It's about Rebus."

By the time Courfeyrac finished with his tale, Combeferre was the one rubbing his hands over his face and fighting a grimace. "You've been in contact with him all through break? Courfeyrac, why didn't you tell me?"

Courfeyrac shrugged, stood up to locate his shoes. "I had other things on my mind." He bent over to retrieve one shoe from beneath the dining room table and his next words were muffled, indistinct. "And I wasn't even sure I was going to tell you. He put an awful lot of trust in me by contacting me, at all. I didn't want to betray that trust. I..." He stood, shoes in hand, turned back towards Combeferre and frowned. "This is going to sound stupid, but I'm finding myself a little protective of him. Enjolras has a way of steamrolling everyone he comes into contact with. Rebus is smart, versatile in his thinking, and he refuses to be pinned down and labeled, even by Enjolras. I don't want to see him lose that if Enjolras were to ever really get his hands on him."

Combeferre sat in silence as Courfeyrac sat back down to pull on and tie his shoes. Finally, he said, "Not you, too, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac's head went up like a shot, sleep-mussed curls tumbling over into startled eyes. "Not me, what?" He frowned, tried to work out Combeferre's meaning. After a moment, his eyes widened further and he stuttered out, "You think I...? That I...? Oh my G-d, Combeferre. No. I don't have feelings for Rebus. I just..." He sighed, shook his head, then returned to tying his shoes in silence.

Combeferre winced. He'd known where this was coming from even as Courfeyrac was puzzling it out, himself. He shouldn't have pushed, not at this particular sore spot. He reached over and threaded his hand into the short curls at the base of Courfeyrac's skull, gently massaging his neck. Courfeyrac never finished that sentence. He didn't have to. They both knew what he wasn't saying - that Courfeyrac knew firsthand how deeply loving Enjolras could destroy someone if they weren't careful.

Courfeyrac reached back, rested his hand against Combeferre's for a moment then shook off that hand and stood. "I gotta go. For some ungodly reason, I decided to register for an 8 o'clock on Mondays and it's going to be hard enough to get up as it is."

Smiling, Combeferre stood to get Courfeyrac's coat. "Would you like a wake up call when I get up?"

A snort. "You must be fucking joking. You get up at an even more ungodly hour than that!"

"5 o'clock is not ungodly. It's a perfectly good time to wake up and an even better time to get any last minute work done."

Courfeyrac stared at him as though to say, "You have clearly gone completely 'round the bend and I'm not indulging you in this insanity any further." What he said out loud, however, was this, "Thanks, but I think I've got this, Combeferre." The tone of those words was bone dry.

"I am just trying to be helpful."

Eyes dancing, Courfeyrac snorted. "Helpful, my ass. If I get a phone call from you at five, I'm going to be pissed."

Combeferre simply smiled and held out his coat. "Duly noted."

"I mean that."

"Also duly noted."

"No, really, 'Ferre. I need my sleep."

"So you've said."

"I'm going to kill you."

Combeferre just laughed as he waved Courfeyrac out the door. Just before Courfeyrac turned to head down the stairs, Combeferre leaned out the door and said, "You can try." Courfeyrac's outraged cry at that was enough to keep him smiling through the rest of the evening... an on into the morning when he got up - precisely at 4:59 - in just enough time to make one phone call. After all, it wouldn't do for Courfeyrac to be late to his first day of classes, would it? He certainly wouldn't want that on his conscience.

* * *

"People are going to talk if you keep inviting me to spend the night, R."

Grantaire made a face in the mirror at Jehan, then leaned down to spit out his toothpaste. As he rinsed out his mouth he made a few more faces for good measure. Jehan merely laughed. Once he'd run a pick haphazardly through his drying curls, Grantaire turned from the mirror to face his friend, grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him forwards, and planted a firm kiss on his lips. "Let them talk. I'm glad you stayed."

Jehan pushed off those thanks with a nonchalant wave of his hand, "Please. You know I don't mind. You know I'll be here whenever you need me. You know I wasn't leaving you alone last night."

"Still," Grantaire said as he caught Jehan's waving hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, "You didn't have to and I appreciate it. I appreciate _you_. You're a good friend, Jean Prouvaire." He offered Jehan a sheepish smile. "Better than I deserve, I sometimes think."

Gazes met and held, words unspoken passed and smiles were shared. After a breathless moment, Jehan's smile widened and he shoved playfully at Grantaire's shoulder, then followed him out of the bathroom to the front door. "You're stalling. While I appreciate the reasons why, I'll also not have you putting a black mark on my school record, much less forming a habit of it. I got enough push back from my advisor when he saw my schedule for the spring semester."

Grantaire froze in the act of shrugging into his coat. He turned back to face Jehan, his voice small, uncertain, when he spoke. "Was he very angry? I'd not have you get into trouble on my account."

Planting another soft kiss on Grantaire's forehead, Jehan said simply, "Not your problem, R. Not his, either. Don't worry about it."

Reluctant though Grantaire was to let the matter drop, he knew better than to keep pushing when Jehan got that tone in his voice. Jehan might look delicate as a rose... but he was as thorny and hardy as one, as well. Prune him back harshly and he flourished all the more under the adversity. Grantaire smiled. He'd told Jehan that once, when deeply into his bottle, and Jehan had been so pleased with the imagery that he'd written it into a poem and gifted Grantaire with the calligraphied final product. Only by the time there was a final product, the verse was no longer about Jehan... it was about Grantaire. He might not be a poet like Jehan, but he could read between the lines as well as if he were - he'd known Jehan long enough for that. His friend thought Grantaire just as worthy of that metaphor as his own self. Grantaire still wasn't sure he agreed, but he wouldn't deny that every time he passed that framed poem where it hung in his bedroom, it made him smile to think that a man like Jehan thought him worthy of such words.

Squaring his shoulders, Grantaire reminded himself that Jehan thought him worthy of this, as well. He thought Grantaire worthy of risking his academic career. He thought Grantaire worthy of committing academic dishonesty. He thought Grantaire worthy of the right to pursue a long lost dream. Secretly, Grantaire thought Jehan thought him worthy of far too much, but he was smart enough to never express that sentiment aloud - especially in a place where Jehan might overhear. So, neither would he speak it today. He would leave his apartment. He would go to class. He would draw. And they would see what would come of it when something had.

* * *

Grantaire hunched his shoulders, defensively forming a cage with his body around the paper in front of him. He felt so exposed, as though at any moment someone might realize he wasn't who he claimed to be and didn't belong - as though at any given moment, his parents might suddenly appear from behind a desk and demand an explanation for his activities. It made him twitchy. It made him ache for a bottle. It made him want to run and run and run and never look back. But, for some odd reason, his professor seemed to believe in him. Grantaire didn't know why, but he didn't want to contradict the man and thus alienate him. He had enough enemies in this class, already.

Grantaire ducked his head, further, curled a little closer over his paper as some of his more curious classmates edged over to see what he was doing this time. He shot a few glares at the more persistent onlookers, and turned back to his drawing. It was nothing, really. It was a still life - a collection of scattered objects on a desk. Objects brought in by students. Simple objects. A ruler. A pencil. A rubber ball. A leaf.

...a perfectly dried rose.

Grantaire's tablemates had cursed him for his addition to the collection, but he hadn't cared. The rose had been the real Jean Prouvaire's contribution to Grantaire's current efforts. It had made Grantaire smile - truly smile - and so few things did, right now, that it was well worth risking his classmates' ire in adding it to the pile of otherwise overly simple items on the table.

Besides, Grantaire wasn't in this class for an easy 'A'. He was in it to challenge himself, to see if there was any merit in risking the pursuit of this course of study. After only two weeks, he'd already learned that that attitude was not the case for the vast majority of his classmates. Half were freshman attempting to get their art requirement out of the way. Half were seniors who'd put off getting their art requirement out of the way. A very precious few were like Grantaire, seeing this course as a gateway to all those which lay beyond it. But, it didn't matter. Grantaire didn't care. He wasn't in this class to make friends - in fact, the fewer he made, the better. Lying about one's identity was no basis for a friendship. Grantaire had already learned that the hard way.

"I thought we were supposed to be drawing what was on the table. What the heck is that?"

The voice was hard, biting, full of bitter jealousy, and it set Grantaire's teeth immediately on edge. He curled tighter over his drawing, ducking his head until only the barest amount of light got through to illuminate the page. That voice had had plenty to say to him over the last two weeks - constantly jabbing and picking, taunting and laughing. Grantaire ignored it and its owner as best he could. He had no time for such games. They were judged strictly on their own merits in this class - not against each other's merits. His own success had no bearing on any other student's and Grantaire didn't often choose to waste his time on those he deemed not worthy of it. This particular bully wasn't.

Until he was.

The man reached out a hand, quicker than Grantaire would have given him credit for, and snatched Grantaire's paper out from the protective circle of his arms. Grantaire reached for it, but he was too late. The bully and his cronies at the other end of the table were turning the paper this way and that, laughing at it and jostling each other in their good humor. Grantaire felt his face flush. _He_ knew his drawings weren't any good. He didn't need his classmates reinforcing that belief. He didn't dare go over, didn't dare try to take it back, but he could listen... and he could hear. The comments were not kind.

"Heh. So which of you chuckleheads brought in the decapitated heads? I don't see those on the table."

"Yeah, maybe he's just seeing things. He sure looks enough like a basketcase."

"Fuck, is this one a boy or a girl? I can't even tell."

"Who cares about that? This one's a retard! You can see it plain as day - either that or he just sucks so bad at this he makes 'em look that way on accident."

That last set off another round of jeers... and Grantaire saw red. He couldn't do this for himself, but for those he'd drawn on that page? For them, he could do this. He rose from his seat and walked over to the group, held out his hand, and said simply, "Give that back."

When his polite request was met with yet another round of jeers and cruel comments, Grantaire's eyes darkened. He held out his hand yet again. "Give that back."

"Or you'll do what? Kick my ass? Like a pathetic homo like you could even come close."

That last drew the attention of several other students in the class. That wasn't the smartest insult to throw around in a large class like this. An insult like that was statistically bound to hit more than one person in this room. Grantaire wasn't one of them. Of all they could have chosen to prick at him with, his sexuality was the one place where he was least vulnerable, and glad of it. His lips stretched wide into a leering smile... and grew teeth.

Voice dark with disdain and eyes dancing with the pure need to inflict as much pain as was being flung at him right now, Grantaire said, "I wouldn't have to." He had their attention, now. "We're all 'homos,' you see. The only difference between us is that your species of homo will eventually be wiped out by mine. Intelligence wins out over brute strength, any day, my dear neanderthalensis. Now, give this sapiens back what is his before he has to show you to an early extinction."

As the group tried to puzzle out exactly what it was he'd said, Grantaire neatly snatched his now quite rumpled drawing from the ringleader's hand, retrieved Jehan's rose and the remainder of his belongings and relocated to another table far from the ones who had started this nonsense. Those close enough to have heard the exchange, and brave enough to do something about it, started a slow, impressed round of applause as he passed by. Grantaire ignored them, too.

It wasn't until he was seated at his new location, amongst a group of wide-eyed freshmen, that he let himself look down at the drawing which had started this mess. It had begun as a still life, for sure - the ruler, the ball, the pencil, the leaf, the rose; all were accounted for... but it hadn't stayed a simple still life. The rose was now perched in a field of wild, untamed hair - it didn't take Grantaire even a second to recognize the familiar planes of Eleanor's face beneath it, nor did it take but a second of self-reflection to realize that hearing those idiots spew their abuse at her image had hurt far worse than hearing them spew it at him.

As always, however, Eleanor's wide, joyful eyes calmed him in ways little else could. Just sounds. Just words. They don't matter when they come from those you don't care about. And really... it wasn't such a surprise that Eleanor had crept into his composition, yet again. She always seemed to find ways to do so. In a way, she'd been his muse since he was a child. No... what surprised him was the other figure who had crept onto the page, all unbidden.

Enjolras.

The pencil had been dented by teeth marks when it was added to the pile and even now, on that page, Grantaire had created a reason - it was clasped between the precisely perfect pearly whites of one leader of Les Amis de l'ABC as he frowned intently at whatever stood before him. Grantaire had seen that look often enough. Enjolras wore it often enough. Grantaire hated that look, hated the distraction, the disapproval in those eyes... hated worse, still, the disappointment. Still... this was the first time that someone other than Eleanor had snatched away his hands while drawing. It was an unexpected development, and an unwelcome one. Grantaire's heart started, once again, to beat with the need to runrunrun. This drawing revealed a truth for which he had not been prepared. On some level, he had already known to what depths his mind was preoccupied with Enjolras. What he hadn't realized until now, however... was how deeply Enjolras had become rooted in his heart. This was dangerous, far more dangerous than even his games on tumblr. This could ruin them both.

Hands shaking with a sudden, intense need to be intoxicated, Grantaire nearly reached for the flask hidden in his back pocket. His hand never made it. A soft voice spoke up from just behind his shoulder, and he nearly fell off his stool in the grips of what felt like a massive coronary.

"I must say, Jean Prouvaire, I was confused as to why you would wish to take a class irrelevant to your major course of graduate study, but now that I've seen what you are capable of, I believe I'm beginning to understand. Talent like yours should be cultivated carefully - relevant to your studies or not - and a heart like yours should be cultivated just as carefully."

The words were a benediction and a blow all at once. Grantaire wasn't ready for that level of praise, wasn't worthy of it, especially not from a man as talented as Professor Mercado. He tried to deny that praise, desperately needed to deny it, push it away, in favor of dealing with this bigger problem - or not dealing with it, as the case might be - but Professor Mercado was having none of it. He simply wrote down the location of his office on campus, and a time, ordering 'Jean Prouvaire' to meet him there tomorrow. Once Grantaire admitted he was available, it was done. There was no backing out of that meeting, no matter what it might hold in store.

Class couldn't be dismissed quickly enough for Grantaire after that. He fled quickly from the room and the building, determined to skip the rest of his classes and drown this miserable day in copious amounts of alcohol. So intent was he in his pursuit of that goal that he didn't even notice when one of the lumbering jocks split off from the others the moment they'd left the building. Grantaire didn't notice as said jock, dark hair hiding equally dark eyes, began closely following his fellows - who, in turn, were closely following Grantaire.

Grantaire didn't notice these things because, thanks to his undiscovered benefactor, the rest of said lumbering jocks never caught up to him. This was luckier for Grantaire than he knew... and unluckier for the class bullies than they'd ever been before. But, Grantaire didn't see, so he didn't know, and that was just as his anonymous protector wanted it. So that was how things remained and would remain... for now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Follow You, Follow Me** (43255 words) by **Renee-chan**  
**Chapters:** 9/?  
**Fandom:** Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables (2012)  
**Rating:** Teen And Up Audiences  
**Warnings:** No Archive Warnings Apply  
**Relationships:** Enjolras/Grantaire, Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta  
**Characters:** Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras (Les Misérables), Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire, Joly (Les Misérables), Bossuet Laigle, Combeferre (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Feuilly (Les Misérables), Éponine Thénardier, Cosette Fauchelevent, Jean Valjean, Inspector Javert, Gavroche Thénardier  
**Additional Tags:** Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Tumblr, Slow Build, Mistaken Identity, Anonymity, Obsessive Behaviour, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Addiction, Angst, Self-Esteem Issues, Rating May Change, Insults  
**Series:** Part 1 of Follow You, Follow Me

**Chapter Summary:**  
_The smile Grantaire sent Enjolras in response was self-satisfied, like he'd been fishing for this argument and was glad that he'd finally gotten it, except... something in his eyes wasn't glad. Something in his eyes was anything but glad. Something in his eyes... Enjolras closed his own eyes and took a deep breath. When he let it out, he said, "Look. I'll be honest. I'm not at my best right now. Could we-" Enjolras winced at how pathetic this was going to sound but continued, anyway. "Could we not argue? Just for tonight?"_

_Silence._

_**July 21, 2013:**_ I think I'm going to stop apologizing for the length of time between updates and just accept that my muse has decided she needs to pace herself. -.-;;; For those of you who have been inquiring over the past few weeks, I appreciate your continued interest and your patience and I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. ^_^ (On a side note, someone whose writing I really admire actually rec'ed my fic on tumblr today and I was so excited it kicked my muse into gear in a big way. So... thank luchia for that. ;D)

Especially because I finally got the boys to have an actual face-to-face conversation! So, it took me 9 chapters to do it. Pfft. I didn't say "slow build" for nothing. ^_~

* * *

**_Follow You, Follow Me - Chapter 9_**  
by _Renee-chan (eirenical)_

* * *

"I have no sympathy for you, whatsoever, Grantaire. Get up."

Normally Grantaire appreciated nothing more than waking up to another's face, another's smile, another's warm arms around him - even more so if they were the face, smile and arms of a friend. And Jehan's were even more well-appreciated than most.

Normally.

This morning when they came into view, Grantaire simply cursed and pulled the blankets back up over his head. It was cold and he was desperately hung over. He'd left class yesterday, gone straight to the Corinthe and gotten thoroughly plastered - more thoroughly plastered than he'd been in a long time. He had a vague recollection of Jehan trying to talk to him. He had a vague recollection of Musichetta trying to cut him off at one point and an even vaguer recollection of managing to steal away with another bottle despite her best efforts. Beyond that, the entire night was a blank. He was pretty sure he'd missed a class - and judging by the angle of the sunlight into the room, it was entirely possible that he'd missed two. He didn't care. He just wanted to sleep.

Jehan puttered around above him, pacing back and forth beside the bed. Grantaire could practically hear the great wheels of Jehan's mind turning, formulating some plot to extract him from his nest of softness and warmth. In the end, Jehan decided that the simplest way was the best way and said, "Fine. If you're going to be that way about it, then I suppose I'll have no choice but to go to that meeting for you."

Meeting? What meeting? Grantaire peeled back the covers just far enough to blink up at Jehan in confusion. At that dazed look, Jehan rolled his eyes and held up a business card. "This meeting, Grantaire. The one with Professor Mercado. You have just enough time to shower, get dressed and get there if you get out of bed within the next two minutes. So, either you will get out of that bed and go to that meeting... or I will." Eyes tinting with sympathy, Jehan added, "I don't think you want that, R. I know I don't."

Jehan and Grantaire stared each other down for another minute, but Grantaire did finally groan and roll himself upright - as Jehan had known he would. Clutching his aching head in his hands, Grantaire looked up at Jehan from under the tangled fall of his hair. "I hate you, you know."

Jehan simply smiled. "No, you don't. But if thinking you do will motivate you to get out of bed faster, then you can feel free to operate under that delusion for as long as you need to do so."

Of course, Jehan won out in the end. He always did. He knew Grantaire far too well by now for it end any differently - Grantaire really didn't have it in him to refuse, not when it was Jehan's name and reputation he was playing with here. Were it his own... well. Grantaire didn't give a hang about his own name and reputation. They could both rot for all he cared, along with Professor Mercado's opinion of him. But, for Jehan, he would keep up appearances. Jehan deserved that much from him.

So, Grantaire got himself out of bed, got ready, gave Jehan a brusque and somewhat resentful kiss on the cheek and left. He wasn't at all eager to hear whatever was so awful that Professor Mercado felt the need to get him alone to tell him, but he would. For Jehan.

* * *

Grantaire's head was spinning, his lungs on fire. How he'd made it through that meeting without screaming or running out halfway through, he had no idea. He thought he'd been prepared for whatever Professor Mercado might have to say, whatever abuse he might be prepared to hurl.

He hadn't.

He hadn't been prepared, at all.

_~"I believe in you."~_

_~"You have talent."~_

_~"You're capable of more than this."~_

Even now, Grantaire was half-convinced that those words had been nothing more than auditory hallucinations. The thought that someone believed in him and wanted to encourage his talent was such an alien concept that Grantaire couldn't comprehend it. It had been far too long since anyone but Jehan and Ellie had believed in him like that - and he was still convinced that they two were biased by affection - and he just couldn't accept it. It had to be a joke. Someone must have put the professor up to it, perhaps Jehan. Grantaire knew he had no talent. All he did was scribble, nothing more than doodles. It was just a way to pass time, nothing more.

Professor Mercado didn't think so. Not only did he not think so, he believed quite vehemently to the contrary, and it seemed he had enough belief for the both of them. He was convinced that "Jehan" had more ability than he'd been able to show in class, that taking that class was a waste of his time, that if he'd known what level of skill "Jehan" had, he'd have placed him out of that beginning class straight into Painting Practices. He could teach him nothing more about drawing than "Jehan" already knew, the professor had said. He could help refine what "Jehan" already had. He could introduce him to other techniques. But, as quickly as "Jehan" picked things up, Professor Mercado felt that he would be far better served by learning such things in a more informal setting where he could proceed at his own pace.

And that was the crux of it. Professor Mercado had shown Grantaire a revised set of assignments and study materials. It was a lot of work - a _lot_ of work - and would require they meet outside of class time, but if he could accomplish it all, Professor Mercado would arrange for him to receive credit for both Drawing I and Painting Practices. It would give him a head start on a fine arts degree, if he was so minded to pick one up. And if not, if he really was just in this to learn, then the professor had hinted that he would be more than happy to take him on as an independent study, said that it had been years since he'd witnessed such talent and to miss the chance to help cultivate it would be a true tragedy of lost opportunity. Professor Mercado was so passionate, so earnest... so hopeful. Grantaire had found himself agreeing before fully realizing what it was he was agreeing to do.

And now... now he was panicking. Sooner or later, Professor Mercado was going to find out he was a fraud. Either he would come to the realization that Grantaire, in fact, had no talent, or he was going to find out that Grantaire wasn't Jehan and no matter which it was, Grantaire would be ruined along with that discovery. Now that the meeting was over, now that he was out from under that dark, earnest gaze, Grantaire was shaking like a leaf. That tenuous hope was more painful than years worth of disappointment had ever been - because he was bound to fail. He knew it in his gut. He was going to fail and add Professor Mercado to the long list of people he'd disappointed in his life.

Grantaire stumbled away from Professor Mercado's office, mind in turmoil and not paying one whit of attention to where he was going. He was focused solely on the need to get away, to put as much distance between himself and the source of that hope as he could. He desperately wanted a drink, but was, for a change, loathe to seek one out. There was a lead weight sitting in the pit of his stomach and he just knew he wouldn't be able to put down even a single swallow, much less keep it down if he did. Forget swallowing, even. The more his thoughts churned on what had happened at that meeting, the more Grantaire found he couldn't even _breathe_.

When he finally couldn't take another step, Grantaire found that he'd fetched up on Hill Square, somewhere amongst the trees and stone benches. It was bitter cold with a hint of moisture in the air and, though beautiful in its own way, the hill was stark and bare in the late winter wind. He didn't care. He sat himself down on one of the stone benches lining the brick path, dropped his head into his hands and started the arduous task of relearning how to breathe. He could do this. He could.

Even if it took all day.

* * *

When had it gotten so dark? Enjolras cursed under his breath, pushed his hands deeper into his coat pockets and picked up his pace. It was far too cold to be out without gloves. It might not be much of a walk from the law school buildings to his apartment, but in this weather, he'd feel every step.

Hunching down further into his wool coat, Enjolras silently railed at everything that had led to his being out alone this late, in the cold, with no hope of a ride. Even in two weeks, the workload for his classes seemed to have increased exponentially and he'd already started to feel as though he was falling behind. He had stayed late after classes in a vain attempt to put a dent into his upcoming projects to compensate.

Then Courfeyrac had begged off their study group, claiming another commitment, leaving him alone with Marius. It wasn't that Enjolras had a problem with Marius. He didn't. They might not always see eye to eye, but the man was solid and could be depended upon. He'd proven that more than once. No, the problem was that he wasn't Courfeyrac. He didn't have Enjolras' study habits ingrained into the fiber of his brain and couldn't anticipate Enjolras' needs and desires. Enjolras was well aware that it was unrealistic to expect such catering and it was even more unfair to expect Courfeyrac to be at his beck and call at all times, as well, but... he always had been before.

Regardless, Marius had also had to beg off and leave before Enjolras was ready to call it a night. Had Enjolras been thinking straight and not buried in the codes and bylaws he was studying, he might have taken those not entirely subtle hints and left with him... and gotten a ride home. As it was, however, he hadn't been that astute and now had to suffer the consequences. He should have paid better attention, but he hadn't and there was no use wailing and moaning about it. He wasn't carrying as many of his textbooks as he could have been, after all, and it wasn't that long a walk to his apartment. And if he cut across Hill Square he'd save himself ten minutes and some traffic dodging.

Crossing that grassy, open area, however, proved not to be the brightest idea he'd ever had. Hill Square was a wide open area and the bare state of the few trees which lined the walk meant the wind blew hard and fast with nothing in its way... except Enjolras. The desire to engage in a spate of cursing at the cold bite of the wind was a strong one and Enjolras fought it as best he could. It wouldn't help anything and if someone were to hear... well. He had a reputation to maintain. Then again... it wasn't as if anyone else was insane enough to be out here in weather like this. No one would hear him. Fuck it all, why hadn't he just left with Marius?

Now thoroughly agitated, when a particularly strong gust cut right through his coat as if it were tissue paper, Enjolras finally gave up fighting the impulse, and let out an explosive curse, screaming into the wind as if it might actually listen, "Even the wind in this society is unjust! Leave me the fuck alone and go harass someone with a warmer coat, already!"

Though he certainly didn't expect to accomplish anything with respect to the wind, Enjolras had to admit that the expression of temper got his blood pumping and warmed him just enough to press onward around the bend in the path... and right past someone sitting on one of the benches and slowly clapping his hands. Fuck. Enjolras considered ducking his head and speeding past him, but as he looked up he had realized... he knew this man.

_Of all people on this campus who could have caught me doing something so monumentally nonsensical... why him?_ Enjolras cursed - to himself, this time - and reluctantly slowed to a stop in front of the hunched figure. Dark, unruly curls only barely contained under a dark green watch cap. Blazing blue eyes that were now red-rimmed - more likely from the cold than from drink, at least - small favors. Lanky frame hunched into a thick parka that looked far warmer than Enjolras' red, wool coat.

Grantaire.

Of course, it was Grantaire.

Enjolras had no use for Grantaire at the best of times, found his tendency to argue against every one of his plans and against every well-intentioned speech he ever made to be grating and inconveniently timed, at best. The worst part of it was that Grantaire argued everything. Indiscriminately. If it came out of Enjolras' mouth, Grantaire had an argument against it. If Enjolras thought it up, Grantaire had a thousand reasons why it was a bad idea, why it was useless to even try. And that was really the crux of the problem. Grantaire just didn't _care_ - about anything - and to a man who cared about everything, that was intolerable and inexcusable. And so it was between them. Enjolras spoke. Grantaire argued. Enjolras rebutted. Grantaire provoked him. And Grantaire always seemed to win those arguments, for once Enjolras became emotional it so tangled his intellect as to leave him unable to come up with reasonable counterarguments. And Grantaire's obstinacy left Enjolras so fuming _mad_ that he was incapable of remaining dispassionate around him.

Tonight, though... Aside from that slow applause, Grantaire was remaining silent. There was no argument forthcoming. And Enjolras... he didn't know how to react to a Grantaire who was silent. Combeferre would know. He could talk to Grantaire, had done so many times. So had Courfeyrac. What would either of them do?

Despite his best intentions to the contrary, the longer the silence drew on, the more Enjolras felt his face heating in an intense blush. He was drawing a complete blank on any possible way he could explain himself, wasn't even sure he wanted to try. After all, what possible explanation would excuse screaming into the wind like a lunatic?

After another few moments, Grantaire stopped his clapping and lowered his hands, said simply, "I feel you. It's fucking cold out here. Anyone with any sense would be cursing the elements." He let out a soft huff of a laugh. "I guess you have some sense, after all."

Enjolras stared at Grantaire for a moment, brows drawing together in suspicion. Finally, he said, "I don't need you wasting my time with mockery, tonight. I just want to get out of this damned cold."

Grantaire stood - slowly, Enjolras noted, as though he were stiff or sore - and clapped Enjolras on the shoulder. "Well, then, by all means, let us seek out more hospitable climes." Grantaire smiled, then, before turning and starting to walk, easily picking up the ground-eating pace of one used to walking everywhere they went, forcing Enjolras to keep up or get left behind. It wasn't until they'd walked two blocks that Enjolras realized that he hadn't had to follow at all. He could have gone his own way. He could have stayed behind. He could walk away from Grantaire at any time. He could... but he found himself not wanting to do so.

For all that Enjolras had been habitually self-contained as a child and as a young adult, and was so even now, he had never truly been on his own. His parents and Courfeyrac, and later Combeferre, had gone with him everywhere he went. For as long as he could remember, Enjolras had never been alone. He'd always had someone following him. And he had to confess, he still appreciated the company, now... even if it was Grantaire's. As long as the man stayed silent and didn't provoke an argument. Enjolras was in no mood for that tonight. He just wanted to get inside and get warm.

So intent was he on his shivering and his subtle attempts to keep Grantaire and his parka between himself and the wind, that Enjolras didn't at first notice that they weren't exactly going in the correct direction and spoke up about it. "Wait. My apartment is in the opposite direction."

Grantaire arched an eyebrow at him, chuckled low in his throat. "Enjolras... at what point in this non-conversation did I say I was walking you to your apartment? When I suggested a more hospitable climate, you had no input to offer, so I chose a destination on my own. If you had an objection, you should have spoken up sooner."

Enjolras gaped at him for a moment, but forced himself to think before answering for a change. The last thing he wanted to do was stop on a street corner and get into an argument. It was too damned cold. So, that left him with two choices. He could figure out where they were and how to get home from here or he could follow along to whatever destination that Grantaire had in mind and hope it was warm and comfortable enough that he could get his wits properly engaged, again. Finally, he sighed and, fighting to repress a shiver, said, "You're right. Is your intended destination at least close?"

Grantaire's smile softened, though a hint of laughter still danced around its edges. "Two more blocks. Will you make it that far or would you like to trade coats for the duration?"

Enjolras scowled, now certain that Grantaire was mocking him, and set off down the street at a faster pace. Grantaire caught up to him at the next corner, laughing. They resumed their silence until Grantaire stopped them and waved a hand at a relatively nondescript door. Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "Here?"

Grantaire nodded. "Here." He pushed the door open and waved Enjolras inside. The moment the door closed behind them, Enjolras couldn't have cared less if Grantaire had brought him to a brothel or crackhouse. It was _warm_ and that was all that mattered.

Grantaire laughed again, soft and amused. "Who'd have thought? Enjolras the revolutionary zealot is secretly a cat." At Enjolras' affronted look, he explained. "No, really. You should see the look of utter bliss on your face at this moment. It matches my cat's 'I found the perfect sunbeam' expression, to a tee."

Warmer, but still not warm, Enjolras still found himself loathe to get into an argument. And it seemed an unfair double standard in this instance, as he knew Courfeyrac had made the same comparison more than once and gotten away with it. It was a running joke between he and Combeferre, in fact. Finally Enjolras merely asked, "You have a cat?"

Grantaire blinked at him, clearly confused at Enjolras' refusal to engage at that obvious opening for an argument, but finally said, "I suppose it's fairer to say that my parents have a cat. I wanted to bring her with me when I came up here, but it didn't seem fair. She has acres of grounds to wander at home and here she'd be trapped in an apartment."

And there it was. The spark. Enjolras' head came up, his eyes blazed and he shot back, "Do you have any idea how much shorter the lifespan is for a cat who lives outdoors? That's unnecessarily cruel. She could be hit by a car or carried off by a predator or suffer any number of other horrible fates."

The smile Grantaire sent Enjolras in response was self-satisfied, like he'd been fishing for this argument and was glad that he'd finally gotten it, except... something in his eyes wasn't glad. Something in his eyes was anything but glad. Something in his eyes... Enjolras closed his own eyes and took a deep breath. When he let it out, he said, "Look. I'll be honest. I'm not at my best right now. Could we-" Enjolras winced at how pathetic this was going to sound but continued, anyway. "Could we not argue? Just for tonight?"

Silence.

More silence.

Enjolras could feel the heat rising in his face again and hastened to add, "As soon as I'm warm, I'll be back on my game and you can battle with me to your heart's content, I just-"

"No, it's fine." Grantaire interrupted him, such a strange expression on his face that Enjolras couldn't even begin to decipher it. "I've been finding myself wearying of our constant arguments for some time, now. I'm game to attempt it if you are." A self-deprecating smile crept across his face. "Besides, as closely entangled as our friends are becoming, I doubt we could stay away from each other if we tried, and Jehan has expressed a desire to not be forced to baby-sit me when you're around. I'm sure he would appreciate it if you and I could master the art of civil conversation... or at the very least, begin the process of apprenticing to it."

"All right, then."

"All right, then."

And once that civil bar had been set... they both fell silent. Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Grantaire did the same. After both had repeated those actions and still come up with nothing, Enjolras realized that he was at a complete loss as to what to say to Grantaire when not in the heat of an argument. Finally Grantaire lamely asked if he'd like to sit down and made a half-hearted gesture towards the tables. Grateful for anything to talk about that wasn't going to leave him awkward and uncomfortable, Enjolras asked, "What is this place, anyway?"

Grantaire shrugged, smile finally reappearing and turning vaguely sheepish. "La Crêperie." At Enjolras' raised eyebrow, Grantaire actually blushed a little, ducked his head. "Given how you reacted when Jehan suggested changing the SJWs' name to something ostentatiously French, I figured you for just as much a Francophile as he is and this is his favorite restaurant in Philly. The owner is French, so the crêpes are as close to authentic as you can get outside of Paris." He shrugged, again. "Thought you'd like it, too, is all."

Enjolras couldn't help it. He really couldn't. With each word to come out of Grantaire's mouth, Enjolras' eyes widened a little further. He was staring. He knew he was staring. That had been days ago - _weeks_. Yet, with perhaps five words worth of conversation to go off of, Grantaire had puzzled out an aspect to Enjolras' personality that he didn't go out of his way to advertise. It was, perhaps, the most thoughtful gesture anyone not Courfeyrac or Combeferre had ever made towards him. And even now, Grantaire's posture was deflating, that sad look returning to his eyes as he mumbled, "But, clearly I'm wrong, so we can go somewhere else."

Enjolras reached out as Grantaire started to turn, and grabbed his coat sleeve. "No! It's... I just didn't realize you knew me that well. You surprised me, and I'm not easily surprised."

A short puff of laughter. "No, I don't suppose you are, at that. Shall we, then?"

They made their way to the tables, choosing one near a heating vent. Enjolras gratefully curled down into his seat and hunched over it, leaning down to warm his hands, as well. Grantaire smiled as he handed over one of the menus. "You really don't handle cold well, do you?"

Enjolras shrugged as he chafed his hands together above the vent. "I never have."

A teasing lilt crept into Grantaire's voice. "Then might I suggest gloves in the future? And a warmer coat? I'll admit the red is striking on you, but is fashion really worth suffering this much for?"

Enjolras simply made a sour face in response to those suggestions. Grantaire held up his hands in a gesture of peace-making as though to say, "I'm sorry. I forgot we weren't arguing." Enjolras rolled his eyes and, now that feeling was finally returning to his fingers, sat up to start looking at the menu. Silence fell as they both debated crêpe choices, broken only by the sound of their stomachs rumbling as the smells from the stove-top began wafting their way.

Once Enjolras had made his selection, he sat back to wait as Grantaire made his. From everything Enjolras knew of Grantaire, this entire night was out of character for him. Then again, if he were being honest, Grantaire was still mostly a mystery to him. He was Jehan's friend. Eponine's friend. He was Joly's friend, Bossuet's and Musichetta's. He was fast becoming Courfeyrac's friend, as well. It was becoming a commonplace occurrence to find those two knocking back drinks together at the Musain even before Christmas break. But what did Enjolras really know of Grantaire, himself?

Grantaire was... not entirely fortunately favored of appearance. His hair had a mind of its own. His teeth were crooked enough that it seemed no attempt had ever been made to fix them. His nose was... well, Enjolras was sure he had seen worse. But his eyes... his eyes were such a startling, striking blue that they put even Enjolras' own to shame. Right now, those eyes were narrowed in thought, the long fingers of one hand gently tapping at Grantaire's lower lip as he mouthed the names of his options to himself.

It was rare to see Grantaire so still, Enjolras realized. Usually he was the life of the party - and if there was no party, he was wont to create one. He was hardly ever seen without a glass in his hand, or a bottle. Enjolras didn't even know what Grantaire did at university besides drink and frequent gaming halls. Grantaire was older than he, Enjolras suspected, but according to those who knew him better, he had yet to acquire even an undergraduate degree. It wasn't that he was unintelligent, either. Quite the contrary. He was smart, and quick on his feet when he wished to be. Grantaire believed in nothing, yet he had such passion when he argued his points that even Enjolras found himself swept away by him. Perhaps that was what infuriated him most. All of that passion, all of that potential... wasting away. It made him angry just thinking about it. If Grantaire would apply even a _little_ of it-

"Do you know what you want?"

"Hm... what?" Enjolras startled, caught off guard by the sudden question. As Grantaire smiled wryly at his obvious distraction, Enjolras found himself reddening in embarrassment, yet again, and snapped back, "Want from who?"

Grantaire simply jerked his thumb in the direction of the server waiting patiently by their table, a fond smile on her face. Grantaire deadpanned, "The chef."

After Enjolras hastily gave his order - attempting and failing to cover his growing irritation with his own failure to be civil - Grantaire gave his, as well, and silence fell over the table, again. After a few more minutes of uncomfortable shifting on both their parts, Grantaire offered up, "Peanut butter and Nutella, huh? Interesting choice. I figured you more for a savory crêpe sort of fellow."

Enjolras picked up his napkin and started rolling it up and weaving it through his fingers. He shrugged. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it."

Grantaire laughed. It was a good laugh, Enjolras couldn't help but notice. Full-throated and unapologetic, just like the rest of him. And it set Enjolras' teeth on edge - associating it, as he did, with Grantaire preparing to undercut yet another of his arguments. This time, however, it was merely a presage to Grantaire saying, "I would never knock another man's crêpe choices. I just thought you would have healthier eating habits, what with this latest crusade against the dining hall."

At Grantaire's openly interested look, Enjolras cracked a small smile in response. "Only when Courfeyrac is doing the cooking. Otherwise, I tend to make do with whatever's in my cupboard."

"Thus the penchant for peanut butter and Nutella." Grantaire looked positively delighted by this revelation, as though Enjolras were a Matryoshka doll and he'd just opened him up to discover the next layer. "Well, perhaps I should bring you back here sometime when you're feeling more adventurous and introduce you to some more traditional choices."

Enjolras raised his gaze to meet the sparking blue one across the table, trying to gauge Grantaire's intent. There was a teasing lilt in his voice that seemed to hint at this being yet more mockery, but his eyes told a different story. Those eyes were hopeful. They were real. Enjolras found himself nodding, yet unsure exactly why. The hopeful smile in Grantaire's eyes slowly spread down to his mouth and Enjolras couldn't help but smile in return.

They managed to keep up the small talk until their food arrived, neatly diverting their attention. Enjolras, finally feeling warm, again, shrugged out of his coat and dug into his food. He hadn't realized until then exactly how hungry he'd been. And Grantaire was right - the food was excellent, and Enjolras was more than pleased with his choice, only... He lifted his gaze from his plate to frown at Grantaire's. "What did you order?"

Grantaire lifted an eyebrow at him as he swallowed the mouthful he'd been chewing and asked, "Why? Smell putting you off?"

Frowning, Enjolras shook his head, "Quite the contrary. It smells delicious. What is it?"

"A galette forestière." At Enjolras' raised eyebrow, Grantaire said, "Do you have a problem with dairy or shellfish?" When Enjolras shook his head, Grantaire cut off a corner of his gallette and put it on Enjolras' plate. When Enjolras simply stared at it dumbly, Grantaire laughed. "Sautéed onions and garlic, cream, mushrooms. The other ingredients that go in it can vary. Jehan likes eggs and bacon in his. I like scallops and shrimp in mine - though I suppose that makes it less 'forest' and more 'surf-and-turf,' doesn't it?"

As Grantaire spoke, Enjolras poked tentatively at the piece on his plate. It certainly _sounded_ like a good mixture of ingredients, but... Grantaire continued to watch him, an expectant smile on his face as Enjolras procrastinated. It was a silly hang-up, really. His parents shared food with each other, eating off each other's plates as though they were communal dishes, but like with so many things, Enjolras had always been more reserved. It seemed wrong somehow, to react to someone telling you your food smelled good by cutting off a piece and giving it to them. To Enjolras, that implied a level of intimacy that he was absolutely certain he and Grantaire did not share. Then again, not everyone felt the same about sharing food. Given how communally Grantaire and his friend, Jehan, shared their personal space and belongings, and that Courfeyrac and Grantaire were fast developing that same shared space, that might simply be how Grantaire operated. And then it would be rude to refuse... and might start an argument.

Enjolras chanced a glance upwards just in time to see the uncomfortable flush in Grantaire's cheeks and the worry in his eyes before it was covered with another smile. Enjolras watched him for a moment more before turning back to the corner of gallette on his plate, now beginning to unfold. Before he could change his mind, Enjolras scooped it up and put the whole thing in his mouth. As he chewed, Enjolras shot another glance up at Grantaire, hidden from beneath his bangs. There. That worried expression had cleared, again. Perhaps Grantaire, himself, hadn't realized exactly what he'd implied about their level of intimacy when he'd offered that piece of food. Perhaps, he'd simply meant it as a nice gesture. Very well, then. Enjolras would treat it as such and think no more of it. Once he'd swallowed, Enjolras turned the full force of his gaze back on Grantaire and smiled, "It tastes as good as it smells - perhaps better. I'll have to remember that for next time."

* * *

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

Grantaire grabbed onto a lamppost and twirled himself around it, heart soaring and smiling so wide his cheeks ached.

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

Even when he'd calmed himself down after the meeting that afternoon, Grantaire had been unable to convince himself to leave Hill Square. He was calmer, after all, but no less distraught. He felt numb, and not just from the cold. He needed Jehan. He needed a drink. He needed someone to lift him up and carry him to the Musain, plop him down in his favorite corner, put a glass in front of him and just keep them coming. He need to not be himself, to not have to think. Sitting on a stone bench in an open area and freezing his ass along with his brain had been a poor second optioin.

...and Enjolras had been the last - the _absolute last_ - person he would have wanted to run into.

Naturally, that meant that Murphy's Law would conspire to make it happen. So, it had. Only... Enjolras hadn't been himself, either. That much was obvious from the way he'd been cursing the elements as though they might respond. Though, given the force with which those obscenities had been uttered, Grantaire had been almost surprised that the wind hadn't obeyed. Had he been the wind, Grantaire certainly would have.

The one good thing to come of that incidental meeting, however, was that Enjolras was clearly not at his best. And when not at his best, he was more pliant, less likely to jump on every disagreement and blow it out of proportion. He was more like his online self, more like the Enjolras who Rebus had gotten to know behind the scenes... more like the Enjolras who had sent Rebus those sad, one-sided conversations over the break.

So, Grantaire took a chance.

And it had paid off.

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

Though dinner had been awkward - good G-d, had it been awkward - it was still the longest stretch of time they'd managed to remain civil to each other, ever, in person. They'd kept to small talk, both before, during and after the meal, but it had been pleasant - far more so than Grantaire had ever hoped his first date with Enjolras might go.

Grantaire paused, stopped his twirling down the sidewalk, reality halting his steps as surely as quicksand would have done. No. This hadn't been a date. You couldn't call something a date unless both participants were aware that it was one. This hadn't even been dinner between two friends. This had been a happy coincidence, nothing more.

But, while it might not be a first date, it was a first step - an important first step. Grantaire had proven that he and Enjolras could share space and conversation, in real life, and not bite each other's heads off. It could be done. It _could_.

Grantaire resumed his walk, meandering slowly In the direction of the Corinthe. Jehan had mentioned that he planned to stop there for dinner and to spend some time with Musichetta. Jehan's friendship with the young Latina had deepened this semester and he'd taken to spending more time at the Corinthe, as a result. Secretly, Grantaire thought Jehan was angling to be included in her growing harem someday, but seeing how happy that friendship made the two of them, Grantaire kept that speculation to himself.

By the time he reached the Corinthe, Grantaire had just barely managed to tone down his zeal, though he couldn't keep that ridiculous smile off his face no matter how he tried - not with Enjolras' words still repeating in his head like a broken record.

_~"I'll have to remember that for next time."~_

Joly was the first to spot him when Grantaire pushed open the door. He gave him a welcoming smile and held up his glass in salute. When Grantaire beamed him a smile, Joly laughed and leaned over to tap Musichetta. She turned, saw Grantaire hanging up his coat in the alcove that served as her cloak room, and wordlessly poured him a double of whisky which he gratefully claimed when he plunked himself down on a stool at the bar.

It took another minute for Jehan to notice Grantaire's presence, but once he did, he raced right over, face flushed with a mix of fear and excitement. "How did it go? It must have gone well. You're smiling! Wait. That meeting was over hours ago. Grantaire, where have you _been_ all this time? Why didn't you call? Wait. Scratch that. Never mind. Just _tell me it went well_."

By the time he'd run out of words, Jehan had his hands fisted in Grantaire's shirt and was shaking him hard enough to slosh his whisky. Grantaire gingerly placed the glass on the bar - not an easy feat when being shaken so hard - and then gripped Jehan's arms to give him a shake of his own. "Prouvaire! Good grief. Calm down, all right?"

Jehan closed his eyes and deliberately flexed his hands, removing them from Grantaire's shirt in the process. Grantaire began to sweat. When Jehan opened his eyes, he placed his hands on either side of Grantaire's face, leaned in close and whispered quietly, "Tell. Me." It was more effective than any screaming he could have done.

So, Grantaire told him. He told him about the meeting, and it was only then, surrounded by friends and out from under Enjolras' addictive and distracting presence, that he let the impact of that hit him, again. Feeling him start to shake under his hands, Jehan wordlessly handed over his whisky. Grantaire took a steadying sip before finishing his tale. Once he had, Jehan frowned. "But... R, this is good! It's very good. What's wrong?"

And the rest came pouring out - the fear, the anxiety, the absolute certainty that he was going to fail and make a fool of himself, of Professor Mercado, of Jehan. Jehan held him through it, hands rubbing soothing circles over his back. He didn't shush him, didn't tell him not to worry. He knew Grantaire too well for that. He simply let him get it out, let Grantaire shake against his shoulder and was good enough not to mention it when the fabric of his shirt was damp where Grantaire's face had been when he was done.

It was Bossuet who finally broke the resulting silence, voice confused. "So... why were you so happy when you came in if it wasn't that?"

And in response to that, Grantaire blushed... and every one of his friends homed in on that blush like sharks to a bucket of chum. Not a one of them said a word, but he could hear what they must be thinking as loud as if it were a shout - Grantaire had met someone. Grantaire ducked his head, coughed once and said...

"Enjolras and I kind of went on a date...?"

His friends took a moment to process those words and once they had... all hell broke loose.


	10. Chapter 10

**Follow You, Follow Me** (47516 words) by **Renee-chan**  
**Chapters:** 10/?  
**Fandom:** Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables (2012)  
**Rating:** Teen And Up Audiences  
**Warnings:** No Archive Warnings Apply  
**Relationships:** Enjolras/Grantaire, Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta  
**Characters:** Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras (Les Misérables), Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire, Joly (Les Misérables), Bossuet Laigle, Combeferre (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Feuilly (Les Misérables), Éponine Thénardier, Cosette Fauchelevent, Jean Valjean, Inspector Javert, Gavroche Thénardier  
**Additional Tags:** Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Tumblr, Slow Build, Mistaken Identity, Anonymity, Obsessive Behaviour, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Addiction, Angst, Self-Esteem Issues, Rating May Change, Insults  
**Series:** Part 1 of Follow You, Follow Me

**_August 19, 2013:_** Another day, another chapter - and with this chapter, comes the return of Rebus. It's been a bit too long since he made an appearance. ;) Also... Bahorel! Finally made it full-on into the fic. And with his appearance, solved quite a few problems for me - like how Feuilly is going to fit in, again. *eg* Again, thank you all for sticking around! ^_^

* * *

**_Follow You, Follow Me - Chapter 10_**  
by _Renee-chan (eirenical)_

* * *

Jehan picked up his drink, then put it down without taking a sip. He opened his mouth to talk, then closed it without saying a word. He frowned, pursed his lips, then deliberately flexed his hands and laid them flat on the table.

Grantaire edged his seat just far enough away to be out of easy reach.

Finally, Jehan took in a deep breath, let it out and said, "Grantaire… you know that-"

"-this wasn't really a date. Yes, Jehan, I know that." Grantaire pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. This was the fourth time they'd been over this ground. Joly and Bossuet had given up after the third run-through and gone to keep Musichetta company at the bar. Grantaire, unfortunately, as much as he would also like to flee, was stuck going through this as many times as Jehan wanted them to go through it. He owed Jehan that much.

Jehan frowned again, picked up his drink and took a sip, then placed it precisely back in its spot on the table and folded his hands in his lap. "You know I'm only trying to look out for you, right? Grantaire…" He reached out, took Grantaire's hand in his and said, "…I don't want to see you get hurt."

Grantaire looked down as Jehan tighten his grip around his hand, as though he could will Grantaire to his point of view simply by wishing it to be so. If Grantaire could have reassured him with words alone, he would have done so. But words seemed to flee Grantaire by the thousands for Jehan's far brighter shores when they got into discussions like this. And if eloquence was unavailable… sincerity was really his only option.

Grantaire said, "If I make you a promise, will that suffice?" When Jehan hesitantly nodded, Grantaire put his glass down and wrapped his free hand around their joined ones. Looking directly into Jehan's eyes, he said, "I can't promise to stay away from him, so I won't bother placating you with that easy lie. I _do_ promise to be careful." Grantaire smiled softly at Jehan as he gave their joined hands a squeeze and pulled them up to rest against his own chest. "I promise to take care of this heart as though it were yours."

Jehan watched him for another moment, two moments, three. Just when Grantaire was beginning to worry that he'd misjudged Jehan's trust in him, Jehan nodded once and turned their hands so he could press his against the steady beating of Grantaire's heart. "You are nothing if not careful of your friends' hearts... but it saddens me that the only way you can be convinced to take care of your own is to pretend it belongs to another." He leaned over, pressed a gentle kiss to Grantaire's lips. "Especially as your heart is more precious to me than my own ever was."

There was nothing more Grantaire could say to that, so he simply pulled Jehan into his arms and held him close. He could no more reassure Jehan that he wouldn't get hurt than he could reassure himself and Jehan well knew that. He also knew that given this small window of opportunity, there was no way that Grantaire could fail to try. He owed _himself_ that much. Drink forgotten on the table and Jehan tucked comfortingly in his arms… Grantaire began to plan his next move. Enjolras was always at his best when fired up with passion… so maybe it was time to see how well he handled fighting a war on two fronts. Grantaire was ready to shake the hornet's nest.

_Good luck, Enjolras… you're going to need it._

* * *

"You ready for another, my friend?" Courfeyrac offered the broad-shouldered, dusky-skinned man at the table his widest, most engaging smile and a slip of a wink as he asked.

Bahorel returned that smile stare for stare, his eyebrow starting a slow climb that landed it up in his hairline by the time he answered, "Jesus fucking Christ, Courfeyrac, take it down a notch, would you? I don't slight people on tips, especially if they're my friends, and especially when they're helping out other friends. Keep your pants on, all right? For both our sakes."

Courfeyrac edged closer, leaned across Bahorel's legs to retrieve his empty glass. "You sure? Me with my pants off is a rather spectacular sight. You should generally find out what you're missing out on before you turn it down."

"Damn it, Courfeyrac! Stop hitting on the customers! You're here to help me, not drive away my business!"

Courfeyrac's smile turned sheepish, a little contrite, as he turned back towards the bar. "Oh, come on." He leaned down to drop a kiss onto Bahorel's close-cropped black hair. "He's known me too long to take me seriously… and he _has_ seen me with my pants off."

At Eponine's aghast look and the spluttering beginnings of what looked like it would turn into a truly impressive harangue, Courfeyrac's smile widened, "Locker room, Eponine. Locker room." When that wasn't enough to assuage the boiling mad look on her face, he elaborated, "JV soccer in undergrad. It's how we met. Didn't I ever mention?"

Bahorel rolled his eyes. "And I'm still scarred for life."

When Courfeyrac turned back, he had his free hand pressed to his chest and such a wounded look on his face that it was impossible not to believe it was real. Bahorel immediately relented and said, "Oh… You're a glory to look at - clothed or unclothed - and you well know it. You're just fishing for compliments."

His wounded expression fading as though it had never been, Courfeyrac slipped Bahorel a wink and tweaked his nose. "Yeah. Little bit. But I know you're always good for one, so I can't help myself."

As Courfeyrac went over to the bar to grab the replacement for Bahorel's drained drink, Bahorel allowed himself a short huff of a laugh at his own expense. He'd known Courfeyrac long enough to know that taking him seriously was something only a fool did more than once, but still… he couldn't help it. He'd rather be a fool then inadvertently hurt a friend. And Courfeyrac, for all his bluster and bravado, had a tendency to wear his huge, tender heart on his sleeve for all the world to take potshots at. It made Bahorel feel more than a little protective of him.

Take tonight. With classes resuming and many of Eponine's hires being local and from the college, she always seemed loathe to make a fuss when one would call in 'sick' out of the blue. Generally they were anything but. Generally it was a case of too little studying discovered too late. But, because beneath _her_ bluster and bravado, Eponine was as tender-hearted as Courfeyrac, she refused to push. It earned her more loyalty from her employees than most of the business owners in the city received from theirs, but it occasionally left her short-handed. Courfeyrac had seen that and volunteered his services if she ever found herself stuck.

Volunteered.

Eponine had been reluctant at first, not knowing much of him beyond his drinking habits and his willingness to take Marius in when he'd needed a place to stay, but if there was one thing Courfeyrac was, it was reliable to his friends. And if his definition of 'friend' was a bit looser than most - he'd declared Bahorel his friend after only one practice, after all, and then proceeded to make it stick, to Bahorel's surprise - no one had the heart to call him on it. She'd made the call, he'd promised to be here and here he was. And far from being off-putting, his flirting _had_ been bringing in business. Unless he was drunk or being purposefully obtuse, he had a fairly good sense of when flirting was welcome and exactly how far he could push it without being offensive. He had quite a following, in fact, and never lacked for a date when he wanted one - male or female - and most of said following had 'discovered' the Musain once he'd started filling in as a waiter… and never quite left, again. Eponine knew it, too, but she was stubborn and didn't hand out thanks easily or graciously.

In fact, Bahorel's first hint of how lucrative the arrangement was becoming for her was when she began insisting that Courfeyrac keep his tips. Bahorel had been there that night. Courfeyrac had simply smiled one of those slow, self-satisfied numbers, and bowed at the waist with a flourish before pocketing said tips. They'd not spoken a word of it beyond that. Courfeyrac was just like that. He was the first to jump to help a friend in need, but the last to own up to how much help he'd given. He was a walking contradiction and Bahorel, being a bit of one himself, could well appreciate that.

When Courfeyrac returned with his drink, Bahorel caught at his sleeve and nodded towards the empty seat beside him. Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow, but when Eponine nodded her approval at the break, sat willingly enough and helped himself to a drink from the glass he'd just brought to the table. Once he'd quenched his thirst, he turned towards Bahorel and asked, "Something on your mind?"

"A puzzle, my friend. A puzzle. One I came here in the hopes of acquiring your assistance in solving."

Courfeyrac smiled, slow and wide. "What makes you think I would be of any use? Combeferre would be a better choice."

Bahorel quirked an eyebrow in return. "I know you, Courfeyrac. Perhaps not so well as Combeferre or Enjolras, who have both known you longer… but in my own way, I think I see you more clearly for all that." He leaned forward, steepled his fingers in front of his face, "Neither you nor I are quite as unintellectual as we pretend to be, are we?"

Courfeyrac met Bahorel's gaze for a long moment, then reached past him, lifted his drink, saluted him… and downed the remainder in one swallow. When he'd finished that, he held up a finger in a clear request for patience, and returned to the bar. When he came back, he had two drinks in hand - a refill for Bahorel and a beer for himself. Once he'd settled back down, he said, "All right, Bahorel. You have my undivided attention until Eponine needs me. What kind of puzzle are we talking about?"

Bahorel leaned back, crossed his feet at the ankles in front of him and his arms over his chest. "The puzzle of one of our new recruits." When those words prompted Courfeyrac's eyes to widen in dismay before he buried the expression in a long pull at his bottle, Bahorel waited him out, but when he finished by saying, "I believe his name is Grantaire," Courfeyrac's covering drink turned into a not-so-covering choke. Bahorel reached out and patted him on the back until he was breathing easier, again.

In a voice that was far too nonchalant for all the reaction Courfeyrac had been giving him before, he said, "Skinny fellow, dark curly hair, blue eyes, drinks like a fish, fights with Enjolras like it's going out of style? That new recruit?"

Bahorel's laugh was a low rumble in response. "That would be the one. Only I'm taking a class with him and the teacher keeps calling him 'Jehan'… which I thought was the name of the scrawny blonde with the outdated fashion sense who tags along with him."

Courfeyrac frowned, leaned forward to rest his arms on the table. "It is. That's odd." Frown deepening, he said, "OK, so it's a puzzle, for sure, but what difference does it make? How does that concern you? Or me, for that matter?"

Bahorel shrugged, "It doesn't, not really. Except I like to at least have an idea of what's going on before I blunder into the middle of a situation."

A laugh. "Not like that's ever stopped you blundering in before."

"Well, no, but still… call it curiosity. If there's one thing I've learned in all my years here, it's how to think. And I think there's more to this situation than meets the eyes… but either way, I'm not going to just stand by and let the poor kid get bullied and the more I know, the more likely I'll be able to stop it for good."

"Wait." Courfeyrac sat up, stared straight into Bahorel's grey eyes and said, "Grantaire is getting bullied? By who?"

Bahorel shrugged. "Don't know. Some of the dumb jocks in that art class with us. Could be something as simple as jealousy - the kid's good and not savvy enough to hide it - but it could be something more sinister. Why? You hear anything?"

Courfeyrac sighed and shook his head. "Not a thing. I'll keep an ear out, though. For all he shakes things up, he's a good man… and like a few others I know, smarter than he lets on." He saluted Bahorel with his beer bottle before finishing it off and standing. "He's good for Enjolras, too. Better than he realizes, I think. I don't want to see him get hurt, not only for his own sake, but for Enjolras', too. It's good he has someone around who won't roll over for him, because he sure doesn't listen to Combeferre and I when we challenge him, anymore. I'd want to keep Grantaire around for that alone… but I like him, too. He's a friend."

Bahorel gave Courfeyrac a soft punch in the shoulder which Courfeyrac immediately played up for effect and Bahorel ignored. "Everyone's your friend, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac dropped the drama and smiled a softer smile, a sheepish one, "Well, that's as may be, but… this is different. Like you were different. Like Feuilly was different. Like Marius was different. There's potential for more there and I don't want to miss out on my chance at it, OK?" His eyes grew serious for a moment, darkening with feeling. "Besides, no one deserves to be bullied - especially not for having a gift. You watch his back in class and I'll try to get to the bottom of the rest of this. Combeferre mentioned wanting to get to know Jehan better, anyway. This is a perfect excuse to get him alone and do just that."

Bahorel waited a heartbeat, then quietly added, "I'd like to be in on that conversation, if I could. Combeferre isn't the only one who'd like to get to know our little poet better."

Courfeyrac stared at him for a moment, then burst into such infectious laughter that he had people at all the tables around them grinning, as well, and Eponine rolling her eyes and shushing him from the bar. When he calmed, he patted Bahorel on the shoulder and said, "I'll let you know when it goes down. It would be my pleasure to arrange a formal introduction for you two."

When Bahorel went to settle up his bar tab later on that night, Eponine waved him away, said Courfeyrac had already taken care of it. Bahorel tipped his cap to Courfeyrac, busily bussing tables on the other side of the bar, and went back to his table to leave him a fifty under his half-empty glass. Two could play at that game.

* * *

Combeferre startled awake from where he was slumped over his books, knocking his glasses askew and nearly knocking his glass of water off the table, as well. As he fought to bring the thundering of his heart back under control, the noise that had awoken him sounded once more, sending his heart into another spasm of frantic beating. Taking a quick glance at his watch to confirm that it was, in fact, as late as the pitch darkness around him hinted it was, Combeferre let out a quiet curse and seriously debated not answering the door.

"Combeferre! Please… if you're awake, let me in!"

…damn it. Combeferre groaned himself off the couch and flipped the switch on the lamp timer to turn it back on. In the future, he'd have to remember to take it off timer when he was going to be studying late after a full day of clinics. It had been far too easy to fall asleep once the light switched itself off and he really couldn't afford that kind of carelessness. Taking off his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes, Combeferre made his way to the door by touch and long familiarity. Really, he wanted nothing more than to veer left towards his bedroom and go to sleep, but Enjolras was even now resuming his frantic pounding at the door and he was bound to wake the neighbors if he kept it up.

And it really wouldn't be fair to leave him in such a state.

Combeferre reached the door still upright by a combination of will and pure cussedness. When Combeferre finally got the door open, however, Enjolras had been leaning so heavily upon it as he knocked that he fell into Combeferre's arms with the sudden loss of resistance and nearly knocked them both to the ground in the process. Only a quick grab for the doorframe saved them from that ignominious end. Combeferre held on to the door and Enjolras just long enough for Enjolras to get his feet back under him, proximity allowing him to catch the raging blush on Enjolras' face before it faded and lack of corrective eyewear allowing him to pretend he hadn't. And really, that was for the best. An embarrassed Enjolras was an impossible Enjolras and Combeferre was too tired to deal with an Enjolras dead set on being impossible.

Combeferre busied himself with closing the door and replacing his glasses onto their usual perch as Enjolras started to pace behind his couch, hands wringing together so hard that Combeferre half-expected to hear bones creaking. Once Combeferre turned away from the door and towards the rest of the room, giving Enjolras his full attention, Enjolras all but wailed, "It's the first time I've heard from him in _weeks_ and I don't know what to do!"

In spite of the vague nature of that blurted out commentary, it took Combeferre depressingly little time to deduce what had Enjolras upset. Who ever managed to get Enjolras this riled these days? Only Grantaire and Rebus. And it couldn't be Grantaire because Enjolras had certainly heard from him over the last few weeks - far more often than Combeferre's desire for general peace appreciated. So, it could only be Rebus. Why now? Why not at some reasonable hour? For that matter, why hadn't Enjolras gone to Courfeyrac with this? He would have been far better suited for it. Well, it was too late, now. Wordlessly, Combeferre held out his hand.

Enjolras stared at the proffered hand for a moment before slumping and reaching into his pocket for his phone and handing it over. As Combeferre unlocked the phone and pulled up the tumblr app, Enjolras went back to pacing. "Why now, Combeferre? I don't even know what I did to prompt it and what if I say the wrong thing and he drops off the face of the Earth, again?" Combeferre opened his mouth to say something reassuring, but Enjolras stopped him by grabbing his free hand and squeezing it to him. Quietly, intensely, he said, "I can't lose him, again, Combeferre. _Help me._"

Combeferre put the phone down. With the arm not already in Enjolras' possession, Combeferre pulled him into a brief embrace. It's what Courfeyrac would have done and, while Combeferre might not be Courfeyrac, Enjolras was so distraught that the gesture was welcomed as though he was. He said, "Enjolras, let me see what he wrote and we'll figure out how to respond. In the meantime… breathe."

Enjolras took in a shaky breath and slowly let it out. By the time he'd taken a second and third, he was ready to step out of Combeferre's hold, to relax his grip on Combeferre's hand. Combeferre turned back to Enjolras' phone and opened the notifications page. "Am I looking for a message or a reblog?"

"A reblog," was the sullen and irritated reply. "He didn't even contact me directly. After all this time." Combeferre laughed as Enjolras huffed to himself from the other side of the room. It would almost be cute if it weren't so exasperating. In fact, it _was_ cute… right up until Combeferre read the tags on the reblogged post. Rebus had chosen to reblog their post dealing with students' rights in regards to their food choices in the cafeteria, and his tag commentary couldn't be considered anything but the opening salvo to a war.

_~#les amis de l'ABC #really #new name new face new policies? #world social justice stage too big for you these days enjolras? #I mean… come on #the school cafeteria? #i can't #i just can't #it's too easy #it's an insult #i'm gone a few weeks and this is what i come back to? #jfc why did I even bother with you in the first place? #have fun with your new catering business~_

Combeferre winced, his shoulders bunching further with tension with every word he read. Why… _why_ did Rebus have to attack the one truly effective thing Enjolras had kick-started this semester? He looked up in time to catch Enjolras returning to wringing his hands and pacing. Softly, he asked, "Enjolras… it seems to me as though you're upset for the wrong reasons."

When Enjolras turned back towards Combeferre, his brows were drawn together, his lips pulled into a severe frown. Combeferre sighed, moved to perch on the arm of the couch and lifted a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "He attacked you. He attacked your ideals. He attacked one of the most effective plans for change we've had in years. And what you're concerned about is that if you don't respond correctly he won't do it, again? Enjolras, surely you must realize how ludicrous that sounds."

Enjolras turned away, resumed pacing, his arms tightly crossed over his chest. Combeferre watched and he waited. Slowly moving lips, drawn together brows, arms fighting their tightly controlled imprisonment against each other in a failed effort to gesticulate, quick, military-precise quarter turns at the end of each pass - Enjolras was working the problem. Seeing that, Combeferre put Enjolras' phone down and began tidying his papers. Enjolras needed time to think it through. They'd deal with the fall out when it came.

Just as Combeferre finished stacking his books, Enjolras stopped his pacing and turned back to face him, eyes wide, jaw slack, hands clenched so tightly around his folded arms that the knuckles had blanched. "Combeferre… you're right. I'm being completely irrational. What on Earth is wrong with me?"

And there was the crux of the problem. Enjolras liked his life in clearly defined steps and patterns, each idea leading to the next in a clear, logical progression. It was one of many reasons why he and Combeferre had become such fast friends. They both liked their worlds neat, orderly, well-defined. The difference between them was that Combeferre could handle life when it wasn't - he was able to roll with the punches. Enjolras, on the other hand, had never learned that valuable life skill. He'd been far too sheltered - the only wild card he allowed in his deck was Courfeyrac… and even Courfeyrac had been tamed to a certain pattern of predictable behavior thanks to years of exposure to Enjolras' need for order.

Enjolras couldn't predict Rebus. It made him uneasy, made him prone to fly off towards the first thought which even vaguely resembled logic, even when said thought might not be logic, at all. And that was the problem, now. He'd been working this problem of getting Rebus to resume contact for too long, had been focused so intensely on finding _that_ solution that his brain had yet to catch up and inform him that life had moved him on to the next problem. For the first time in his life, Enjolras' ability to work a problem was failing him utterly… because Rebus wasn't a problem to be solved. He was a person and he refused to be neatly pinned down and categorized. And Enjolras wasn't prepared for that. But that was not something Combeferre could just tell him. That was a conclusion Enjolras had to reach for himself. So rather than spell it out for him, Combeferre simply handed Enjolras his phone and said, "Nothing is wrong with you, Enjolras. Growing up is hard work - harder when you're coming to it so late."

Enjolras stared at him for a moment, lips parted on a half-begun word, eyes widening, then narrowing, then widening, again. Finally, his face relaxed into a smile. Opening his phone to the tumblr app, Enjolras reblogged his cafeteria post from Rebus, tags included, and added the following text underneath:

_~What's the matter with __**you**__, Rebus? Is the stage too small for you? Injustice knows no size limits, no boundaries. Are you worried that I've finally taken on a fight that I might win - a fight I might win without __**you**__? …or are you afraid that I'm treading on territory a little too close to home for you? My bet is that you've eaten in that cafeteria, Rebus. My bet is you're afraid you might have to interact with me directly if you take this one on. So, go on. Call me out, Rebus._

_…I dare you.~_


	11. Chapter 11

**Follow You, Follow Me** (52831 words) by **eirenical**  
**Chapters:** 11/?  
**Fandom:** Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables (2012)  
**Rating:** Teen And Up Audiences  
**Warnings:** No Archive Warnings Apply  
**Relationships:** Enjolras/Grantaire, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta  
**Characters:** Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras (Les Misérables), Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire, Joly (Les Misérables), Bossuet Laigle, Combeferre (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Feuilly (Les Misérables), Éponine Thénardier, Cosette Fauchelevent, Jean Valjean, Inspector Javert, Gavroche Thénardier, Bahorel (Les Misérables)  
**Additional Tags:** Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Tumblr, Slow Build, Mistaken Identity, Anonymity, Obsessive Behaviour, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Addiction, Angst, Self-Esteem Issues, Rating May Change, Insults

**Summary:**  
_Lately, Rebus had been posting original content - no captions, no bitingly sarcastic and brilliant tags. He'd simply been posting and letting the post speak for itself. And what he was posting… it spoke volumes._

**Notes:**  
**_September 15, 2013:_** So, I think it's safe to say at this point that I'll be posting once a month, if that. O_o;;; I'm so sorry about that, but between work and other fic exchanges, my time for FYFM is about to be severely curtailed. :-P On the upside, at least one (if not two) of the holiday exchanges which I'm planning to participate in will be Les Mis oriented. And the other is Yuletide, so that's its own fun. ^_~

But, don't worry! I will definitely still find time to work on this story. It's my baby, at this point, and I have a vested interest in seeing it finished. ^_^

* * *

**_Follow You, Follow Me - Chapter 11_**  
by _eirenical (Renee-chan)_

* * *

If Jehan hadn't known better, he would have sworn that Grantaire was trying to kill him. As it was, he was forced to concede that it might not be deliberate on Grantaire's part. Still, deliberate or not, Grantaire was going to be the death of him, nonetheless. His latest game with Enjolras seemed to involve taunting him as harshly and brutally as possible online while going out of his way to be kind to him in person. This would continue until Enjolras couldn't handle the strain of Rebus' taunting anymore and snapped at Grantaire, leading to a horrifically explosive argument. And beyond all reasonable expectation, Grantaire was _thriving_ on it. Jehan, on the other hand, felt like a tightly coiled bundle of exposed nerves.

So many hidden agendas. So many lies and machinations. So much that could go wrong with even the littlest misstep… Jehan wasn't built for that kind of strain. He liked his interactions straightforward, his relationships unjumbled and uncomplicated by spite. It was one of many reasons that he kept his assignations brief and fond, extricating himself before any unpleasantness could form.

Grantaire had never been like that. It was what made being friends with him such a risk. He reveled in his baser emotions, reveled in the darkness of the human spirit in ways that Jehan preferred not to even think about, much less experience.

…which wasn't to say he didn't. Jehan had his own share of darkness, his own poetic ennui which descended upon him from time to time, the difference being that he never went out seeking it the way Grantaire did his. He didn't make it his be-all, end-all goal in life. He couldn't even imagine living that way. Yet, here he was, living right in the midst of the very kind of chaotic darkness in which Grantaire found such satisfaction… because Grantaire was living there and Jehan would not leave his side. Not now. Not when he was still needed.

Grantaire had asked Jehan to meet him that morning for breakfast - unusual enough, as Grantaire seldom rose before lunch if he had a choice in the matter - and when Jehan arrived, Grantaire was paint-smeared from his latest work and positively giddy with joy. Seeing him like that had rocked Jehan deeply. His first thought had been that it had been far too long since he'd seen Grantaire that happy… his second that he was unsure that he ever _had_ seen Grantaire that happy.

Grantaire spent most of his time in Professor Mercado's studio these days, tinkering with some project or another - oils, acrylics, charcoals, mixed media, photography… he was like a child let loose in a candy store all but making himself sick by gorging on sweets. His other classwork was slipping, Jehan knew, with him so distracted, and there was a fevered urgency to his joy, a sense of desperation, that Jehan didn't like. It was as though Grantaire was trying to fit as much experience, as much of his newly rediscovered passion for his art, into this semester as he could… as though it was all going to be ripped away from him come springtime.

And Jehan knew the system well enough to know that that was a very realistic fear. If they couldn't find a way for Grantaire to take classes safely under his own name, either the university would take this away from him… or his parents would. And Jehan had been down that road with Grantaire before. He refused to walk it, again. He'd kill Grantaire's parents himself before he'd let them take this away from him a second time. He would. He had it in him to do it, too. Jehan knew himself well enough to know that. He was capable of murder. If it would keep Grantaire safe and sane and happy… he was capable of far worse than that. But that was his own darkness and he kept it from Grantaire, becaue it was a weight that Grantaire definitely didn't need to carry.

Jehan had somehow kept his fears from Grantaire through breakfast, walking him back to the Professor's studio before leaving for his own pursuits. Though what pursuits would be safe or worthwhile with this anxiety churning in his stomach, Jehan had no idea. And after an hour or so of aimless wandering, all he'd managed to prove was that his feet, at least, had been acquainted with Grantaire for far too long. Musichetta took one look at his face when he appeared on her threshold, ushered him inside and silently put a glass of wine down on the table in front of him. He didn't even bother to protest the assumption.

An hour later, Jehan's glass was empty and several of his journal pages were full. He didn't even bother reading them, knowing all too well what kind of poetic misery he was capable of creating when his mind wandered these particular paths, especially when it did so alcohol-assisted.

Jehan had so tuned out the world, in fact, that it wasn't until he lifted his glass and found it full, once again, that he realized he had company. Tumbled brown curls, warm brown eyes, a body that Adonis, himself, would have killed for… Jehan smiled and lifted his glass in salute to his new companion. "My thanks."

Courfeyrac flipped his tray behind his back and dipped Jehan a small bow. "My pleasure." When he straightened, his eyes took on a worried look. "You just… you looked like you could use it and that's not a normal look for you. Everything all right?"

Jehan sighed, nodded his head, then paused and shook it, instead. "No, I don't suppose it is, but it's hardly even my business, so I'm not certain I feel comfortable making it yours."

After taking a quick glance around the bar and determining that all the other customers were in no need of refills at the moment, Courfeyrac slid into the seat across from Jehan and said quietly, "This is about Grantaire, then." When Jehan shrugged and took a sip of his wine, Courfeyrac continued. "I'm not sure it's my place to say… but does it have something to do with his usurping your good name to take a class?"

Jehan's eyes narrowed, and something dark and dangerous flashed in their depths as his ever-present protective instincts rose to the fore. "And what would you know about that?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture he'd no doubt picked up from his friend, Combeferre, Courfeyrac shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm going about this all wrong. Bahorel is in that class with him and he came to me because he noticed Grantaire was getting bullied by some of the less sensitively inclined jocks in the class with them and he wanted to know if I knew anything about it before he got himself involved." He sighed, lowered his hand. "I'm assuming from your reaction that any usurping of your name has been done with your knowledge and blessing, and for good reason, then?" When Jehan cautiously nodded, Courfeyrac relaxed, lips stretching into a smile. "There has _got_ to be a story behind that one."

Allowing himself to relax, as well, Jehan took another sip of his wine. "Of course, there is. But, as I said, it's barely even any of _my_ business and the barely is only because he needed another name to accomplish the deed and mine was most conveniently at hand."

Shaking his head at Jehan's obstinacy Courfeyrac turned up his hands in defeat. "All right, all right. It's none of my beeswax and I'll stay out of it until you-" At Jehan's narrowed eyes, Courfeyrac hastily corrected, "…until _Grantaire_ decides it is. OK?"

Mollified, but somehow unsatisfied, Jehan nodded. They sat in silence for a time after that, Jehan idly swirling his glass in one hand and flipping pages in his journal with the other, and Courfeyrac scanning the bar for anyone who might need something. Finally Jehan broke the silence with a nonsequitur of a conversational gambit. "I thought you were helping out at the Musain…?"

Courfeyrac smiled, shrugged. "Eh. I am. Figured if I was helping out Eponine, it was only fair to make the offer to Musichetta, too. She's just as short-handed come exam weeks and she doesn't even have a Gavroche to help out. And before you suggest Joly and Bossuet… let's just say that though they love her and they mean well, they're not the most useful hands in a bar. I've got the time, so I figured… why not, you know? I hang out here enough, anyway. I may as well be useful."

Jehan's drawn together brows softened at that, his face relaxing into a true smile. "You're a good man, Courfeyrac - a good man and a good friend. And I don't say that lightly."

"No… I don't imagine you do," Courfeyrac said.

Jehan was enchanted to note the light blush now staining Courfeyrac's cheeks at his praise. It was adorable, a deep contrast to his usual boasting pride. Jehan resolved to try to make him blush so more often. They sat in silence for a few minutes more, until Musichetta waved to them from the bar. Courfeyrac smiled and stood, tipping an imaginary hat in Jehan's direction. Before walking away, however, he said, "Jehan, I understand how protective you are of Grantaire." At Jehan's skeptical look, he added, "I have a friend I'm similarly protective of, so I really do get it. I just… I know how lonely it can be on that rampart by yourself, OK? If you need anything, even if it's just a glass of wine and a friendly ear to commiserate with… I'm here."

It was nearly another week before Jehan got up the courage to take advantage of that open offer for his own sake, and it took another week and a panicked Grantaire climbing up one side of him and down the other while he fretted over Professor Mercado's gentle suggestion that he start a portfolio for testing up to the next level classes, to take advantage of Courfeyrac's offer of trust on his behalf, as well.

It turned out to be one of the best decisions Jehan ever made. Because Courfeyrac proved to have not only a vastly sympathetic ear… but a solution to the problem. He introduced Jehan to Bahorel… and to Feuilly. And once they'd hammered out a tentative plan between them, for the first time in years, Jehan allowed himself to believe that it really might all turn out all right.

* * *

Enjolras couldn't get out of class fast enough. Courfeyrac grabbed at his sleeve as he went past, a startled exclamation on his lips, before he gave up on getting Enjolras to stop and instead turned to packing his books as quickly as possible. Enjolras paid him no mind. There was a new post from Rebus and Enjolras wanted to be free of the crowd around him before reading it.

Once outside, he pulled up his tumblr app, went straight to Rebus' most recent post… and stared, immediately torn between the desire to smash it against the concrete, the desire to laugh himself sick, and the desire to congratulate Rebus for sheer artistic brilliance. Rebus was not the kind of man to post his own content. His modus operandi was reblogging content from other users and adding his own snide commentary. He wasn't a creator. That wasn't his way. After his resumed contact with Enjolras a few weeks ago, however, that seemed to be changing.

Lately, Rebus had been posting original content - no captions, no bitingly sarcastic and brilliant tags. He'd simply been posting and letting the post speak for itself. And what he was posting… it spoke volumes.

This latest post was a political cartoon, as most of the others had been, and, also like those others, its subject was Enjolras. In this cartoon, he was dressed in high-waisted black pants, black boots, a white shirt, a cravat, and a short red jacket. There was a red, white and blue sash wrapped around his waist and it and his hair were streaming in the wind. He looked like he could have stepped straight out of the Revolution… except that he was tiny. Stubby, round and… cute, like some roly-poly baby animal and with as much authority as you might expect from one. He was standing atop a cafeteria table and brandishing a stalk of celery bigger than he while shouting to a rapt crowd, "Vive le végétarisme! Vive la nourriture casher! Vive le végétalisme! Libérez la cafétéria de la tyrannie américaine!"

Here was the trick, though: Rebus was somehow posting these things from another account and was waiting until they gathered momentum - 1,000 notes or so - before reblogging them from his own tumblr. The only reason Enjolras even knew they were Rebus originals was by the artist's watermark - it was difficult to miss the ornately drawn 'R' in the corner of each piece and what else could that 'R' mean? By the time Enjolras saw this particular cartoon, someone had helpfully added a caption translating the French to English: _~"Long live vegetarianism! Long live kosher food! Long live veganism! Free the cafeteria from American tyranny!"~_

Someone else had added a less helpful caption which read, _~"OMG! That's exactly how he looks when he gets all worked up about something or other - all red-faced and irate and huffy… it just makes you want to cuddle him, doesn't it?~_ Eyes narrowing at the username attached to that particular reblog, Enjolras resolved to strangle Courfeyrac later - first for the comment and second for not telling him about this post when he'd first seen it.

There was another caption beneath that one which redeemed it - and Enjolras recognized Combeferre's username this time and resolved to do something especially nice for him in return - _~The only reason he becomes so irate is because some spend more time observing what he looks like than hearing what he says.~_

The comments degenerated from there. And underneath it all, the coup de grace… Rebus' own tags.

_~#so how exactly IS this fight going without me enjolras? #having any difficulties with people taking you seriously? #i mean… just look at you #who would take a face like that seriously? #i've seen kittens who look more fearsome #then again #from what i hear #you ARE a kitten at heart #perhaps that's how i should refer to you from now on #'mon pauvre petit chat' #'my poor little kitten' #what do you think? #has a nice ring to it doesn't it? #;D~_

"What's wrong, kitten?"

Enjolras flung his head up, eyes wide and disoriented at the abrupt conjunction of online and real world, to meet a pair of mischievous brown eyes bare inches from his and even now crinkling at the corners with mirth. It took another moment for Enjolras to reengage his brain and respond. "Courfeyrac, I swear, if you had anything to do with his latching onto that nickname, I will break into your apartment and do something unpleasant to you in your sleep, 21 years of friendship be damned."

Courfeyrac immediately held up his hands in a placating gesture and those mischievous eyes took on a hint of deeper warmth. "Whoa, there. I had nothing to do with it, but how could I not take advantage of someone else noting and exploiting your resemblance to a cat? It was such an unexpectedly pleasant surprise to have that outside validation of my own observations that I just couldn't resist." His smiled widened. "Besides, as you were staring down at your phone, you looked just like a puffed up cat - complete with angrily lashing tail," and with that, he gave Enjolras' pulled back hair a light tug. "If it's getting so unruly back there that you have to tie it up, then aren't you about due to get that mane of yours cut, kitten?"

Batting Courfeyrac away from his hair, and pointedly ignoring Courfeyrac's resultant snickering at that action, Enjolras debated dignifying that remark with a response. While he did normally let his hair grow a bit over the winter to help protect his neck from the cold, it was getting a bit out of hand. He needed a haircut. Desperately. But there was no way in fuck that he was admitting to Courfeyrac that the only reason he was even putting it off was because of a conversation he'd overheard between Grantaire and Jean Prouvaire after a meeting the week before...

_"Jesus, Jehan, did you see him tonight? The way the light played off that hair of his? Like a halo. A fucking avenging angel, all wrath and justice and righteous fury… My angel."_

Grantaire had been drunk and Jean Prouvaire had hauled him out of the Corinthe with a resigned air, shooting daggers at Enjolras with his eyes the entire way, but still, Grantaire's words had stayed with him. Enjolras had above average looks and well knew it, had even taken advantage of it from time to time, but Enjolras had never bothered to worry or dwell on his appearance for its own sake. It was just the outer shell of himself and mattered far less than what was within him. Only now, having heard that, for the first time in his life, Enjolras wondered how he must look from behind someone else's eyes. _An avenging angel, Grantaire? If that's how you see me, no wonder we quarrel so badly. How the reality of me must disappoint you…_

Turning to regard Courfeyrac as he resumed his walk and Courfeyrac fell into step beside him, he said, "I just haven't had time. I'll take care of it soon."

Soon… but maybe not just yet. Rebus' most recent posts had convinced Enjolras he must be someone close to their group in some way, was perhaps even someone he'd met - Enjolras was self-aware enough to know that that thought, and not the brisk pace of his walk, was far more likely to blame for his increased heart rate - someone he'd shaken hands with after a meeting, stood with at a rally, sat beside in class… or perhaps he was just someone who frequented the Corinthe or the Musain when they held their meetings. No matter which, it was now painfully obvious that Rebus was someone close to them. So, Enjolras wasn't going to cut his hair just yet. Not until he'd had a chance to see if Rebus, like Grantaire, had been close enough to notice it. Not until he'd had a chance to find out if Rebus saw him as Grantaire did and, if so… what he would do about it.

* * *

"Not everyone fits into neat little boxes of gender and sexuality and your implication that they should is one of the most insulting statements I've ever heard almost come out of your mouth. For the life of me I can't see how you've managed to remain this naïve - isn't Courfeyrac your best friend? One would think _he_, at least, would have had the good sense to correct that kind of thinking in you by now."

Cosette's eyes widened as Enjolras froze in his speech-making, fists clenching, breath quickening and eyes alternately widening and narrowing as he fought to deliver a civil response to that salvo. Beside her, Eponine rolled her eyes, knocked back the rest of her bourbon, and said, "Good grief, I thought we were past all this shit."

Sighing heavily as she stirred her own drink, Cosette said, "Apparently not." Swiveling her stool around to face Eponine, Cosette held out her glass for it to be topped off. Eponine did it without question. "The most ridiculous thing," Cosette said, "Is that they're arguing just for the sake of arguing. That isn't what Enjolras meant and we _all_ know that, so why even pick that fight?"

"Because this fight isn't about gender or sexuality or any of the other topics over which they've ranged for the last few weeks. And until they admit why there is discord between them, it will not be resolved."

Eponine leaned forwards, crossing her arms over the bar as she eyed the new arrival. "You've noticed that, too, huh?" All three winced as the two combatants squared off, bare inches between them, one furiously blushing and protesting his innocence, the other getting so far into his personal as to force him to give ground and back away. Neither was even making an attempt at indoor voices, anymore.

Eponine made a frantic gesture at Bahorel, still sitting quietly in his corner with Feuilly, to get up and do something to break it up. Bahorel simply shook his head and raised his hands in the universal gesture for "I'm staying the hell out of this." Cosette couldn't blame him. Turning back to the one who'd walked up to join she and Eponine, she said, "So, what do you think they're really fighting about?" She had her own suspicions, of course, but she was uncomfortable sharing them in public until certain secrets - secrets which were not hers to share - were out in the open.

Marius sighed and sat down beside her, as usual careful to keep one seat between them should Eponine choose to make use of it - a gentleman even under duress. He forestalled her question by ordering a drink, blushing when Eponine snickered at the request, and stammering out an explanation about how after this debacle, he anticipated several of their number getting thoroughly inebriated and needing rides home. Just as he was starting to get himself truly worked up in his embarrassment, Cosette reached a hand up and patted his cheek - now as red as the drink he'd ordered - then said, "Marius, relax. It's a good idea. I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

As Marius calmed, Eponine smiled, eyes ducking up shyly from beneath her bangs as she handed over his drink and then waved away his money. When he protested, she simply pointed to the rather prominent sign above the bar which said, "The house prefers you live to drink another day; all designated drivers drink free." At his grateful smile, her own cheeks pinked, but she brushed it off with a gruff, "Eh, it's cute. I haven't made so many Shirley Temples since Gavroche figured out that a bottle of IBC looks just like a bottle of beer in dim lighting. Seems I miss it."

As Marius left to return to Courfeyrac's side to try to prevent his distraught friend from trying to jump into the middle of this fight, Cosette turned to Eponine and lifted one eyebrow. When Eponine's blush returned and deepened, Cosette laughed. It was a low laugh, deep in her throat, and husky - a bedroom laugh. Though Eponine swatted her with the rag she'd taken up to wipe down the bar, Cosette would not be deterred. She caught Eponine's hand and placed a soft kiss in the tense palm. "You still have a bit of a crush there, my love. It's showing."

Eponine's eyes widened and she shook her head sharply. "I do not!" exploded from her lips before it could register that such a quick denial would accomplish the exact opposite effect of what she wished. Miserably she added - though said addition would further that opposite effect but unable to help herself - "It isn't what it looks like."

Shifting her grip up Eponine's arm, Cosette placed her next delicate kiss on the inside of Eponine's wrist before lifting her gaze and offering a gentle smile. "It's OK. I understand."

Eponine pulled her arm back as though she'd been burned and hissed out, "No, you don't. It's stupid, OK? _I'm_ stupid. I have a better life than I ever dreamed I could have. I have Gavroche. I have _you_. I have your parents, who are just as wonderful as mine are awful. I have everything I could ever want… and I _still_ go doe-eyed when that man so much as opens his fucking mouth to sneeze." She threw the rag behind her into the washbin and crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "It's just a stupid crush, nothing more than physical attraction. I should be able to get over it."

After taking a quick glance behind her to see that everyone else was still occupied by the spectacle of that ever-escalating argument - and how exactly had they gotten on the topic of discussing the Torah and the Talmud, anyway? - Cosette hitched herself up onto the bar and over it and pulled a steel-cable taut Eponine into her arms. After a few minutes of Cosette's soothing hands running through her hair and down her back, Eponine finally relaxed. Cosette then spoke, quietly, gently, into her ear. "It's not just physical attraction, Eponine. The man is adorable; he has all the appeal of a tumbling kitten and the earnestness of an adolescent Labrador." She leaned back to look straight into Eponine's wary eyes. "And it's all genuine. He genuinely cares about his friends. He genuinely is that awkwardly well-meaning. There isn't a false bone in his body." She smiled. "You aren't the only one who finds that attractive, my love."

"But… but, _you_ and _us_ and what am I supposed to do with-!"

Cosette cut off that building wail with a kiss before pulling Eponine back into her arms and resuming her gentle stroking. "You just answered your own question. _You_ will not do anything." When Eponine pulled back to meet Cosette's gaze, Cosette smiled - and that smile had more in common with that of a cat who'd finally gotten that damned noisy lark than with the sweet, innocent girl everyone thought her to be - and finished with, "_We_, however… will do plenty."

Eponine blinked, taking a moment to process what she'd heard before turning to take in Marius' form bent over his table as he spoke urgently to Courfeyrac. Her lips slowly stretched into a smile to match Cosette's - the wolf to Cosette's panther. Nodding, she said, "He has been in awe of you since minute one. That could work."

Pressing one last kiss into the column of Eponine's neck, Cosette said, "Don't sell yourself short. I've been taking him out and about the city - oh, don't glare at me so, Eponine, it was all those art exhibits and fundraisers you never have patience for - and should I tell you how often our conversations wind their way back to you and his incredibly deep respect and appreciation for you? Because I will. Gladly. Your virtues are one of our most revisited topics of conversation and his eagerness to hover around said topic warmed me to him faster than any action he could ever have taken." Smirking as she worked her way back out from behind the bar, Cosette added, "In fact, I could see us spending many a pleasant evening with we two worshipping you like thralls - perhaps fanning you and feeding you grapes, as well."

In response to that, Eponine's blushing scowl finally broke into a smile and she reached out and smacked Cosette's behind just before she emerged from behind the bar. The exaggerated 'yipe' Cosette was planning to let out, however, turned into a real one as the sound of breaking glass accompanied Eponine's playful swat. Before Cosette had a chance to truly register what was happening, Eponine's simmering irritation with the happenings in her bar had transmuted to rage and launched her over the bar and into the tightening crowd. "I have had it with you two! Back the fuck away from each other!"

The two turned to stare at her in utter bewilderment until she growled and gave them both a shove to get them apart and out of her way. "Which one of you broke my fucking glass?" At the resounding silence she received in answer, Eponine repeated herself, slowly and distinctly, as one might speak to a disobedient child and then added, "You both know the rules. You break a glass, you pay for a glass. So which of you owes me for this one?"

Just as the crowd around them started to shuffle nervously about and Enjolras was about to huff himself up into a state of truly righteous indignation, a gentle hand tapped Eponine's shoulder and held out a $20 bill. She turned to find an apologetic Joly holding a mortified Bossuet close to his side and practically melting into his shadow. Her angry posture deflated in a heartbeat and she held out a hand to grip Bossuet's shoulder. "Oh… honey, I'm sorry. I thought it was these two knuckleheads. Let me get your change, all right?"

Bossuet sighed and miserably shook his head. "Just keep the change, OK? I'll start up a tab or something." Once he'd gotten that out, he fled back to his table, hands and legs clasped as tightly to him and as far from anything breakable as he could manage. Cosette's heart clenched at the sight. Bossuet was so good-natured, so sweet… and so very accident prone. He hadn't deserved to get caught a glancing blow by Eponine's ire - and judging from the look of guilt sprawled across Eponine's face, she knew it, too.

When Eponine returned to the bar to put the twenty in the register, Cosette stayed just long enough to squeeze her hand, then got up to go join Joly and Bossuet. She didn't say a word, merely raised an eyebrow and waited.

Eventually, arm once again tightening around Bossuet's shoulders, Joly raised his gaze to meet Cosette's and said, "It's been so tense, lately." He sighed, deliberately stopped himself from wiping at a miniscule spot on the table with a Lysol wipe he'd pulled out from who-knew-where. "Musichetta banished us both from the Corinthe until we'd regained our senses."

Cosette prudently decided that she wasn't going to ask. Instead she asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Joly wrapped his arms around Bossuet's, smiled when Bossuet took his hands in a firm grip with his free one, anchoring them both. Eventually, he said, "Just… talk to him? Maybe he'll listen to reason if it's coming from you. The one person who has always been able to calm him in the past…"

Cosette finished, "…isn't here." She sighed. "I make no promises, Joly, except that I'll try."

"That's all I can ask."

Cosette rose from the table and turned to see what everyone else had been doing in her moment of distraction. Enjolras was deep in conversation with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, occasionally shooting death threat-level glares over his shoulder. Marius had retreated to the bar where Eponine was keeping him well-supplied with Maraschino cherries and topping off his Shirley Temple whenever he put it down. Bahorel and Feuilly were sitting in their corner, watching the festivities as though it were a sports event. Feuilly she'd expected that of - he tended not to get too directly involved with the student members of Les Amis and he'd long ago announced that this whole feud was his idea of a romantic comedy and far more entertaining than the crap they passed off as such on television - but Bahorel… he was usually more wont to jump in and help. That he was keeping back from getting involved was telling of to exactly how ridiculous an extreme the situation had escalated.

Still… someone had to do something. Taking a deep breath, Cosette approached the lone figure at the corner table. He was staring fixedly at Enjolras, blue eyes blazing with anger, hands flexed so hard against the wood of the table that her own ached in sympathy. At her approach, those blue eyes shifted, alighted on her… and he _growled_. Oh for the love of…

Cosette sat herself down to deliberately block his sight of Enjolras, covered one of his flexed and quivering hands with her own and said simply, "Jean Prouvaire… we need to talk."


End file.
